


Upside Down

by Quit3Contrary



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Bonding, Canon Compliant, Competition, Feels, First Love, Ice Skating, M/M, Performance Art, Romance, Slow Build, Slow Burn, Soul-Searching, Teamwork, World Travel
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-12-14
Updated: 2017-04-26
Packaged: 2018-09-08 11:48:34
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 57,477
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8843554
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Quit3Contrary/pseuds/Quit3Contrary
Summary: At the 2012 Grand Prix Final in Sochi, Victor Nikiforov is finding it difficult to stay motivated.  He's no stranger to success, but finds no pleasure in it anymore.  Toying with the thought of retirement, Victor is tempted to move on from this chapter in his life and try to figure out what else he could possibly have to offer.  One drunken encounter makes leaving the world of competitive ice skating a little more difficult than he thought. He felt… Meaningless.The word turned around in his skull as he examined it, familiarizing himself with its connotation before letting it sink in to see if it felt right.  It fit like a glove, the impulse reacting to the revelation in a way that made him realize it was true.  Was he that dissatisfied with his success?  No… that wasn’t it.  It was more the tediousness of winning.  There were no more goals to achieve--he had broken the world record several times, and won nearly every show he participated in for the last decade.  He considered himself a happy person and was grateful that he was able to pursue what he loved with his entire being, but as it stood, if he continued down this path, he had nothing left to work towards that he hadn’t already done.  Four times.





	1. Retirement.

His feet tapped the concrete lightly, the soft rustling of his clothing and the slap of his skin on the ground the only sound that broke the blissful silence around him.  Eyes drifting down, Victor traced a curving line down the back of his skull and along his neck, dropping his hand on his collarbone as it slid woefully to his side.  He stopped, frowning to himself before turning to the windows behind him, the rooms behind them dark.  Victor’s piercing blue eyes gazed back at him, reflected clearly on their surface.  That would do.

Running a hand haphazardly through the piecy, white-blond fringe that teased at his cheekbones, Victor padded closer to the window, looking intently at himself as he replicated the arm movement with more deliberation on its placement. Again, starting lower this time… no, that didn’t create enough space near his ribs.  Absentmindedly, he moved his legs to a rhythm no one heard, slim calves bulking with lean muscle as he pointed his toes.

With a sigh, he rested his weight heavily onto a single hip.  He glanced at himself in the window, sullen eyes traveling up the length of his frame.  They took careful consideration of his faults; a divot in his calf muscle that had appeared after he was laid up from a broken knee, the uneven muscle mass close to his hips, the mole that nestled itself near his too-prominent ribs under his right arm.  Eventually, they rested on his lips, the top one dipping down in the middle just a bit too far, giving him a perpetual hint of a smile.  

Victor had stared at the darkened ceiling in his room for over an hour before he gave up on sleep and gone on a search for a place to practice.  The pool had seemed a quiet enough spot.  Rehearsing was something useful he could do with his time, and it would get the tension out of his legs.  It wasn’t unusual for Victor to feel restless before a competition (and he frequently got in trouble for oversleeping)--he relished the opportunity to share his work with others, and that excitement could make sleeping difficult.  But tonight felt different somehow.  The jitters he felt weren’t motivated from any sense of joy.  It was something more… empty.

A sigh escaped him as he tucked his face into the crook of his shoulder to wipe at his forehead, sweat prickling his skin despite the cool December air.  He hated practicing excessively, particularly the night before he was supposed to be performing, and the Grand Prix Final was a mere 12 hours away; he subscribed to the theory that there was an exact number of times you could perform something perfectly before your brain numbed and started to make mistakes for the sake of doing something different.  It was hard to deny that such logic would apply to his own career as well, and with his potential fifth consecutive win in as many years looming ahead of him, Victor felt stagnant.  He was nearly 30, and the oldest skater on the ice.  His age had never bothered him previously; each year he gained only added more experience for him to draw from as a performer (though said experience was mostly limited to an endless cycle of rehearsal and travel).  The word “retirement” flickered in the back of his mind, an eventual certainty that filled him with dread.  He had spent most of his life on the ice.  What exactly was he supposed to do with his life after something like this?  He had heard of some fast food chains in America having waiters on roller skates.  Maybe that would be fun.

A chuckle escaped him at the thought, despite his unusually somber mood.  At least he could say he had a plan now.  He sighed again, a generous cloud of his breath appearing in front of his pink nose, warming the frozen tip for just a moment.  Sochi was far more south than his home in St. Petersburg, making the winters here much more bearable.  It had stayed above freezing the whole day, which almost made it feel tropical to a man who was used to living in temperatures that frequently dropped below 0.  He wore a light sweatsuit that proudly displayed his country’s colors in nonsensical designs, the sleeves hastily pushed to his elbows when he started heating up from the exercise.

Now that he had stopped, the tension returned to his limbs.  His right thumb tapped the tips of his fingers in quick succession, a habit that showed itself when he was thinking or nervous or… what exactly was this emotion?  His heart felt hollow, its beating slow and meticulous, going through the motions without feeling.  It wasn’t far from what the rest of him had been doing just a moment before.

Victor took his time, eyes on his own reflection but looking far beyond it as his mind worked to identify what he was feeling.  Despondent?  No, too dramatic.  Frustrated?  Too angry.  The emotion was quiet, still, pooled peacefully in his chest.  It was passive, resting as though it had always belonged there.  

He felt… Meaningless.

The word turned around in his skull as he examined it, familiarizing himself with its connotation before letting it sink in to see if it felt right.  It fit like a glove, the impulse reacting to the revelation in a way that made him realize it was true.  Was he that dissatisfied with his success?  No… that wasn’t it.  It was more the tediousness of winning.  There were no more goals to achieve--he had broken the world record several times, and won nearly every show he participated in for the last decade.  He considered himself a happy person and was grateful that he was able to pursue what he loved with his entire being, but as it stood, if he continued down this path, he had nothing left to work towards that he hadn’t already done.  Four times.

Victor tucked the thought into the back of his mind, making a note to come back to it later.  A sudden fatigue crept into his shoulders, tense from his practice.  His eyes darted around the area, tinted an icy blue from the bulbs that diligently burned beneath the surface of the water in the pool.  Despite the weight in his heart, a secret smile spread across his lips as he slipped his tongue between his teeth in concentration, and he began to bend over backwards into a bridge pose.  Thighs and core burning as they carefully controlled his descent, Victor reached over his head, delicately caressing the ground beneath him with his fingers as he touched down.  His palms and feet soaked up the cold from the concrete, chest and belly pulled tightly towards the sky in a graceful arch.  Taking a deep breath, uninhibited from the normal tension in his body, Victor pulled his head back through his shoulders, eyes glancing up to see his heels.  This felt _good_.

Victor had not practiced yoga for very long or even very consistently, but he loved doing it.  It was probably the only thing he felt self-conscious about, which was why he liked to do it only when alone or with an instructor.  But he enjoyed forcing his body to think outside of its normal routine, and it was a way for him to physically express himself with no expectations.  He lifted one of his legs into the air, feeling the pressure from the added weight press down into his wrists.  Flexing and pointing his toes with little thought, Victor looked out at the view of Sochi hiding behind the steel fence that wrapped around the rooftop.  The lights from the city now twinkled dutifully in the sky as they pretended to be stars in his new perspective.  A laugh escaped through his nose as he lifted the opposing hand from the ground, reaching it out in front of him, pinching the brightest light between his thumb and forefinger as he struggled to keep his balance with only two limbs allowing him to stay in this precarious position.

He had been so preoccupied that he had missed the quiet click of the door as it opened and shut, allowing an intruder to silently enter Victor’s momentary sanctum.  Victor remained blissfully unaware of the new arrival until his vision was framed with a pair of shapely, muscular legs.  Heart stopping for just a moment, Victor tumbled to the ground.  The newcomer laughed.

“I can’t believe it.  You actually fell.”

Victor looked towards the voice as he pushed himself onto his knees, finding a familiar face waiting to greet him.

“Chris,” Victor greeted, putting a hand on his chest to calm his fluttering heart.  

 "I didn’t think anyone else would be brave enough to be here,” Chris said, champagne bottle and a single glass dangling from his fingers.  A short, black robe was all he wore to keep out the chill, the sleeves reaching down to his wrists, but the bottom hem stopping just below where his legs met.  It was inappropriate, and yet Victor couldn’t help but feel as though it suited him perfectly.  He wondered how long Chris had looked himself in the mirror before coming, weighing the pros and cons of being cold versus looking his best in the event of a late-night rendezvous.  Chris was most likely overjoyed that his bet had paid off.

“No better place to be alone,” Victor smiled, adjusting to thinking and responding in English.  Folding his legs in front of him, he rested his arms on his inner thighs.  “What brings you here?”

“I have champagne the night before every competition for good luck,” Chris explained, lowering himself to the ground as he dipped his feet in the pool.  “And coming here usually means I’ll be by myself, but I should have known that you of all people wouldn’t be put off by the cold.”  He winked.

Victor smiled at the teasing, looking at the bottle.  It was a no-name bubbly, something that only sold when someone was looking to get a lot of people drunk for cheap.  With surprise, he commented, “I’ve never heard of that brand before.”  Chris laughed once, picking up on the subtext.

“I just like the bubbles,” he said, picking it up to look at the label.  “The cheaper they are, the harder they bite.”  The phrase dripped with innuendo; Victor fought to roll his eyes, but the smile on his lips was genuine.  With a flick of his thumb, the cork popped, mist emerging from behind it as the bubbles hissed in greeting.  Chris brought amber eyes to meet the others’, blond hair tousled generously enough to imply that he had a difficult time sleeping as well.  Pouring the liquid gold into the only glass be brought, the Swiss took a hearty sip before extending it to his new companion.  “Want to share?”

Victor gazed at the drink as it fizzed excitedly, eager to be exposed to the night air.  After a moment, he accepted the flute, bringing it to his lips and feeling it bite at his tongue.  He wrinkled his brows at the kick; it was extra dry.  Chris laughed as Victor returned the glass, mumbling before he took another sip, “Told you.”

Despite their years on the ice together, Chris and Victor were not very close, but that could be said for just about anyone in Victor’s life.  The demands from his career were large, leaving little time for anything more than work between training, rehearsal, travel and developing new routines.  He had been skating for the majority of his life, and it was difficult to imagine it being any other way.  Ah--there was that feeling again.  Victor took a moment to inventory the people in his life that he considered close as he accepted the champagne once again, the taste agreeing with him much more easily this time.  There was Yuri, he supposed, but he wouldn’t consider the kid a _friend_ , per se.  That was more because it was difficult imagining Plisetsky having any friends in the first place.  His skills made him hostile, and the lack of any worthy competitors in his division had made him cocky.  He liked Victor because Victor was better than him.

Another sip.

There was Mila, 9 years his junior.  She was mature for her age and fun to be around, but still had the problems only someone fresh out of school could relate to.  Georgi, while a good guy, was easily swept up in his own emotions, particularly when it came to girls.  Victor had never met someone more painfully or desperately heterosexual in his life.  There was Yakov as well, but… while Yakov was someone that Victor trusted implicitly, their relationship was more dysfunctional and purpose-driven than friendly.  That was fine.

The champagne bit him again.

“Mind if I cut in?” Chris’s voice melted into his thoughts, the rumbling baritone warm against the cold.  As he gently took the glass from Victor, the Russian realized it was empty.  It was hard to hide the pink in his cheeks as Victor laughed sheepishly.

“Sorry about that.”

“If you need it more than I do, by all means,” the Swiss said obligingly, refilling the flute.  “What’s on your mind?”

Victor paused, realizing that Chris was the only skater he’d kept in regular contact with, though that mostly just extended to likes on social media and the occasional text message.  It was more than he did with most, opting to keep to himself when he was at home and leaving most of his socializing for events like these.  He was never particularly lonely, but if he were to step away from this, what would he have left?

“What’s next?” The question was vague, mostly because he didn’t quite know how to vocalize it.  Victor wasn’t the type to share his feelings often.  Chris raised his eyebrows in surprise.

“The World Championships, you mean?” he asked in turn, and Victor glanced over at him with hesitation.

“No.”

There was a pause that stood between them, awkwardly reminding them that they were not intimate enough to have this conversation easily.  Victor waited a few moments, reminding himself that he had started this train of thought, and it was his responsibility to finish it.  Chris graciously picked up the slack before the other needed to find a way to arrange his words.

“You really are thinking about retiring,” he said, unable to hide the shock in his voice.  Victor kept his eyes ahead, looking out at the city as reflections from the water danced around them.  He looked unusually pale in this light, the blue mixing with the white of his skin in a way that made him look like a corpse.  The word said aloud made him feel old.

“It’s something I’ve thought about,” the Russian said carefully, not wanting to confirm or deny the idea.  Chris was a competitor, after all, and while Victor felt comfortable enough with him now, he didn’t want to present the other man with any advantages.  “Ending on a high note.  There are plenty of people still skating at my age, but…”

“‘At your age,’” the other scoffed as he repeated the phrase.  “For my own reference, when do you become an old person?  Is it at 26?  Or 27?”  Victor smiled, glancing at Chris as he leaned back on his palms, slowly kicking his legs in the water.

“Each gold medal adds 10 years to your life, you know,” he teased, though he second-guessed the jest when the other skater’s eyes darkened.  Chris had never managed to overtake Victor in a competition.  Really, no one had in a very long time.

“Look,” Chris said, graciously letting the humblebrag pass him by.  “We all have moments where we don’t feel confident about what we’re doing.”  He paused.  “Well, I don’t, but I’m sure others do.”  Air rushed out of Victor’s nose as he chuckled silently in response.  

“I appreciate your honesty.”  He couldn’t hide the hint of sarcasm, and didn’t want to.

“I appreciate yours.”  Chris’s response was more earnest than his own, thick lashes framing eyes that were filled with sincerity for just a moment.  “I would be lying if I said part of me didn’t _want_ you to retire… But things wouldn’t be as interesting.  If you’re that determined to leave, there’s always coaching, I suppose.”

“Hm.” Victor hadn’t considered that before.  Chris had finished his glass of champagne and poured another before offering it to Victor, who graciously accepted.  Was he the teaching type?  The only teacher he’d ever known was Yakov, whose style of educating could be referred to in some circles as “professional asshole”.  Victor could count on both hands the amount of times Yakov had given him legitimate praise, but then again, Victor was the type of person who reacted well to negative criticism--there was always something to learn, no matter how the feedback was phrased.  In a way, he almost preferred Yakov’s hostility, because it meant he was honest.  There was no possible way Victor could hope to mirror that, though.  

“Listen, don’t worry about it now,” Chris said, waving his hand in front of Victor’s face to bring him back into the real world.  “Let’s enjoy this moment, then head back to bed.”  The Swiss raised the bottle to the glass in Victor’s hand, clinking them lightly together before taking a swig.

“Together, or separately?” Victor asked, a wicked grin spreading across his face.  There was a hint of a blush in Chris’ cheeks as he quickly pulled the bottle away from his lips, and the Russian celebrated quietly in his head.  He relished in attempting to embarrass the other man (mostly because Chris was the only other competitor he knew who openly liked men), who seemed to have no shame whatsoever.

“Don’t play with my heart, Victor,” Chris said, and Victor took a long sip from his own glass to hide his smug expression.

The glass empty, Victor rose to his feet as his fellow skater finished the bottle.  Extending a hand, he helped Chris up before they made their way to the door, the cold nipping at their dampened ankles.  As they strolled to the elevator, Chris casually draped an arm over Victor’s shoulders, pink cheeks betraying the fact that he was just a tiny bit tipsy.  Victor seemed to carry a permanent blush at the tip of his nose, disguising the fact that the drink had not left him entirely unaffected, either.  At least now he’d most likely be able to get some sleep.

Mind wandering, Victor tried to think of the last time he’d had a conversation like the one they’d shared, his recent history coming up empty.  The realization made his heart feel a bit heavier--he never considered himself lonely or unhappy, but his notoriety made it easy for him to meet and socialize with people without making actual connections.  Did he really not have friends anymore?

  
The two separated in the hall, going to their separate rooms after bidding each other good night.  Chris laid one kiss on each of Victor’s cheeks, hands resting lightly on his shoulders.  Awkwardly, quickly, quietly, he murmured “Good luck” to the Russian before waving the keycard in front of the handle on his door and disappearing inside.  Whether he meant it for tomorrow or beyond was anyone’s guess.


	2. Snowflakes

Once upon a time, in a village that bore no particular significance to anyone that didn’t live there, there was a noble who resided alone in a castle on a hill.  The noble had no family to speak of, and the villagers thought it quite curious that he was well on his way to 30 but had yet to choose a wife.  The noble thought it was strange that they cared so much about his personal life.  His home had once been bustling as much as such a structure could, being so large; he happily stayed with many members of his family, each with a modest amount of staff there to attend to them.  But it seemed each year that passed took someone new with it, be it death, marriage, childbirth, or some combination of the three.  His world dwindled down to nothing.  The staff he kept was minimal--enough to keep him fed and his home clean.  Frequently, the sound of his footsteps echoing against the stone walls was the only evidence of life he had in his home.

There was, however, a secret that he kept behind the doors that were so tightly shut.  In the solitary time that passed, a desire for company overcame the noble, who began to venture down to the village below in disguise in search of companionship.  A heavy hood, a clean shave, and an old, silver pair of rounded glasses were all that separated him from his true identity.  His habit of keeping to himself made it unlikely that anyone would have recognized him even with only a change of clothing, but it was best to be safe.  He felt free, wandering amongst the commoners who paid him no mind; no kneeling, no show of respect, no requests for favors and no gifts given just for existing in a different caste.  The noble made no friends, ducking in and out of shops and taverns to people watch, living vicariously through the conversations he eavesdropped on.

It was easy to find solace surrounded by people that had no interest in him; it showed their true natures, as well as his place in the universe.  He was ultimately meaningless, another body in a crowd, another face to ignore.  For someone who had spent their entire life being told that they were special for no reason other than the circumstances of their birth, he felt comforted knowing that he was just like everybody else.

Weeks passed, his visits to town growing in frequency.  Months passed, and soon every evening was spent in the tavern closest to his home.  He had begun making a habit of patronizing the traders, bringing fresh fruit, flowers and other small gifts home to his servants, who were thrilled with his change in demeanor.  But even with his increase in interactions with others, the noble was careful to stagger who he purchased from to avoid recognition.  Anonymity had continued to be a refreshing change of pace, and he wore the mantle proudly, melting into crowds with ease as he continued watching, watching, watching.

A day came and left so quickly in the safety of the village that he entered the tavern much later than he had expected, pockets heavy with coin.  Seating himself at his normal table, tucked roughly in a dark corner, the noble’s eyes scanned the room to see if there were any familiar faces.  There was the man who was currently cheating on his wife.  The woman who worked at the docks from sunrise to sunset every day.  The barmaid who looked as though she had been groped one too many times today--the noble made a note to slip her some extra coin with his drinks.

But before she had time to acknowledge him, the _clunk_ of a mug heavy with beer on the table he was seated at scared him out of his wits.  Turning sharply to see who had invaded his small bubble, the noble was greeted with a warm smile etched sweetly on the face of a handsome young man.

“I was wondering when you would come,” the voice that escaped the guest was soft, the color and consistency of warm milk with honey.  The noble’s heart quickened as his eyes searched the other for a hint as to where he knew him from, but his new acquaintance was most certainly not someone he recognized.  The young man smiled, pushing the drink towards his puzzled friend as he held up one of his own for a toast.

“Have we met?” The noble stuttered, and the young man’s smile widened.

“No,” he replied, clinking his glass against the untouched offering.  “But you’ve come here alone every night for quite some time.”  He sipped at his beer, tongue delicately running the length of his lips to remove the foam that lingered.  “You always look like you’re trying to find someone.  I thought I might help.”

The noble felt a blush run through his cheeks.  It appeared as though he had finally been spotted.

 

*    *    *

 

“Your arm work is sloppy, Vitya!”

The sharp voice snapped Victor out of his thoughts, the music and story for his program tugged out from under him by the comment.  Victor hadn’t even reached the edge of the ice before more gruff criticism was on its way to him, the owner of it looking at him with a sour expression.  Ah, Yakov.  Quick to attack his mistakes, as always.  Victor could feel his lips pull up reflexively in a frustrated smile, a habit he had developed to keep the peace in their working relationship, as well as his sanity.  It wasn’t as though the comment was unwelcome--it was what he paid the man for, and regardless of how the advice was delivered, it was still invaluable to his development as an artist.

Still, it was hard for him to appreciate the words, no matter how well-intended.  Despite the cold compress he had applied earlier, his eyes were puffy and heavy, silver lashes creeping into his vision as he struggled to keep them open.  His head throbbed with a dull ache that had appeared after the nap he snuck in before they were allowed to warm up.  It was two days after his late night at the pool with Chris, but he had still struggled to sleep, dissatisfaction tugging at his hands, feet and clothes, making him perpetually uncomfortable.  His future was a giant question mark at the moment, one that was prefaced with an inquiry that he couldn’t quite make out.

Practice was difficult to care about--he had rehearsed late into both nights he had been in Sochi, which meant that mistakes were imminent were he to continue.  Victor had performed his Short Program perfectly the night before, and his projected score for his free skate gave him a laughable advantage.  The stakes weren’t high; they hadn’t been for a long time, and so he had allowed himself to become complacent.  It was disappointing to admit, and Victor couldn’t exactly pinpoint when that thought process had become his reality.  He thought he would always love skating enough to give himself to it every time, but this event was proving to be challenging in different ways.

It was close to showtime, and already there were thousands of eager attendees excitedly waiting for the final leg of the competition to begin.  People shuffled and murmured to themselves as they found their seats, the noise from hundreds of bodies blurring together into a single sound.  Victor’s eyes traveled around the arena as he ignored his coach’s lecturing, scanning the faces for no one in particular.  He was always fascinated by people he didn’t know, each collection of features slightly different than the last.  Like snowflakes, no two faces in the crowd were alike.  Victor loved snow.

“...Are you listening to me?   _Vitya!_ ”

Oops.  Caught.  Wincing, Victor prepared for a new assault fresh off the heels of the last one, but Yakov only sighed, the sound catching and dragging loudly in his throat.  It was surprisingly restrained, and Victor wondered what made the older man feel so charitable today.

“Don’t let this happen out there,” his coach said, pinching the bridge of his wide nose between a stubby thumb and forefinger.  Frustration painted itself clearly in the gesture.  Victor appreciated the honesty in Yakov’s expressions, leaving no room for ambiguity.  He wondered idly if he was the only person who was so out of touch with his emotions.  Naive, perhaps, but it was a thought he couldn’t shake for a moment, the feeling of alienation one that he was not familiar with.

Suddenly, the first Free Skate was upon them, a feverish melody peppering the air as the skater from China struggled to keep up.  Victor had forgotten what he was called, though they had met in passing.  In truth, Victor struggled to remember much of anyone’s name, as it was usually lost in the flurry of activity that surrounded these events.  Faces were quick to disappear as well, going at a much slower rate but still eventually gone nonetheless.  It had lead to quite a few awkward run-ins following competition season, when Victor’s brain dumped information it had gathered throughout the months of work and absolute chaos that came with traveling across the entire world.  Were he to be honest, even with the stress and the effects it had on his memory, he never felt more alive than these times.  The months between April and October left him with the arduous task of untangling the jumbled mess his mind and body became after the grueling schedule that came with his work.  The week following the World Championships was usually spent melted into the couch, wrapped around his dog as he tried to learn how to function like a normal human again, mind racing and tripping and stumbling as it found itself with considerably less stimuli.

The remainder of the routine passed in the minutes that Victor spent fiddling with his costume, straightening the sheer pink tails that hung delicately over his backside, pulling the tight fabric along his forearms to make sure that it laid across his knuckles _just so_.  His work would doubtlessly be undone within moments of starting his performance, but the first impression had to be perfect, every fold in his rose-colored tux precisely where he wanted it.  

A reaction rippled out through the crowd as the skater’s scores were announced, the recipient already sitting at the Kiss and Cry with his coach and his mother, Victor assumed.  A smile was plastered on his face as it was announced that he was currently in first place.  The placing most likely wouldn’t last long, Victor thought as he removed his skate guards.  Yakov waited patiently beside him, the silence between them typical at these junctions.  While Victor was largely an outgoing and positive person, he liked to stew in his thoughts prior to a performance, wrapping his mind around his routine one final time before stepping out onto the ice.  Words only polluted his thought process, so he didn’t speak, and neither did Yakov.  The two had been working together for what was most likely decades (as he was turning 27 in just a few days, Victor had started to ‘forget’ how long it had been on purpose to make him feel younger), each intimately familiar with their habits, rising to meet the others’ needs and expectations without a word spoken.

Handing the guards to his coach, Victor leaned down to wrap him in a tender embrace, the thanks for his help in getting him to this point present in the soft squeeze of his arms around Yakov’s neck.  While Victor had begun to feel his remaining time and purpose in the skating world slip away from him, in this moment, he was grateful to even be here, bathed in the lights, the cheers, and the chill of the rink.  Yakov wrapped an arm gruffly around Victor, patting his back with a roughness that implied how unpracticed it was.  

“Do well, Vitya.”  There was no need for luck.

With that, Victor was on the ice, feeling his feet hum with excitement as the blades cut a shallow course across the surface.  There was nothing quite like the moment before he began, when a hurried hush fell over the crowd as every soul in the room held their breath.  Making his way to the center, Victor felt the air still, eyes scanning the expanse of the arena, meeting thousands of gazes and realizing that each person they belonged to had a different story, a different reason for being there, and yet, they were all here to share in this moment together.  There was a perfect singularity in performance, a thousand thoughts and actions springing to life all at once in response to one event.  Mankind was a collection of messy, beautiful, confusing impulses, and at the moment, Victor had control over every last one present in the rink.

Standing still, taking this final moment for himself, Victor closed his eyes and exhaled, the sound nearly echoing around him in the quiet.  The mournful chords of his aria began, and his eyes went to the ceiling as he allowed himself for the second time that day to get lost in the story of his performance.

 

*   *   *

 

They were many drinks past their first, and the Noble and his friend swapped stories with hot blushes painting their cheeks.  Glances were punctuated by friendly touches, a decidedly charged atmosphere developing with each interaction.  The Noble felt the pressure building in each casual brush initiated by his new acquaintance, the other’s soft brown eyes difficult to meet without a heat growing in his ears in the moments where conversation lulled.  The night passed quickly in each others’ company, and soon they were being kicked out by the barmaid as the tavern closed.  His new friend, a simple tailor, suggested that the night didn’t have to end, inviting the Noble to his home for bread and cheese.  

“Oh, I really couldn’t,” the Noble turned down the generous offer.  He very much enjoyed his time with the other man, but found that it was difficult to keep his guard up.  His cover would be blown, his ability to move freely amongst others compromised.  Not to mention the scandal that being with another man would create.  It was better for him to be alone, he thought, pushing aside the fluttering in his chest that appeared any time his gaze explored the Tailor’s face, eyes lingering just a little too long on his lips.  The Tailor kept his steady, meeting the Noble’s glances with little difficulty.

“Is it that you can’t, or don’t want to?” the inquiry was gentle and genuine, an attempt to avoid any future miscommunication.  It gave the Noble pause, his brain rearranging his impulses, checking his priorities.  His mouth opened, unsure of what he wanted to say.

“I… would very much like to.”  The honesty spread a warmth through him that he hadn’t felt in years.  The colors around him shifted and changed, more vibrant the closer they were to his new friend, whose smile challenged the brilliance of everything around it, the shape of it uneven and perfect.

“Then why don’t we worry about your obligations tomorrow?”

‘We’.  The word sent a chill down the Noble’s spine, the idea of being with another person as intoxicating as the beer they had shared.  He drew in a careful breath, ready to stand strong in his refusal, but froze when fingers grazed his wrist, lightly dragging along his palm.  The contact sent shocks down his legs, an unidentifiable feeling gathering in the pit of his guts.  When the other’s pinky hooked his own, the Noble was struggling to stand, knees weak at the idea that his attraction was returned.

Mouth agape, he could only nod his agreement, their hands breaking apart as they made their way to his cottage, the unspoken energy between them curling and wrapping around their chests as the Noble’s heartbeat quickened to a near thrum, his anxiousness growing with every step.

That night was not the last, even for that week.  Their visits blended together into a nearly continuous stream, the distance between them kept as small as possible.  The Noble had never had a lover, let alone a friend that wasn’t in his family.  Each day spent with the Tailor was a gift, opened gleefully at the start of every morning when the Noble would slip on his disguise before making his way to the house tucked in the outskirts of the village below.  No sunrise ever found them in the same bed; both knew the risks that their relationship posed, and so the question of remaining together was never asked.  Regardless, every moment was treasured, each memory carefully placed in his coin purse.

And then one day, it just… stopped.

The door remained closed when it was patiently knocked upon, the home behind it empty.  Belongings scattered themselves on shelves or furniture, obvious evidence of life but none present to prove it existed.  The Noble thought perhaps work or family had called the Tailor away, though the Noble could remember no mention of it.  Days became weeks became years.  The Noble spent each alone, the window his only company.  He no longer visited the villagers.  His maids quietly lamented the loss of his help with shopping.  The tavern was one man emptier each night, his absence felt by no one.

He was right.  It was better for him to be alone.

 

*    *    *

 

The music stopped, Victor’s face a portrait of devastation.  Sound hit him from all sides as the audience burst.  The applause was deafening.  He smiled, their appreciation touching him deeply, and bowed with a flourish.  Aside from names, he was also adept at forgetting the meaning of the word ‘modesty’.  Victor brought his gaze to Yakov, who was already waiting by the Kiss and Cry--the old man nodded once, the corners of his lips pulled down in approval as thick brows met above his nose.

His score was high, to no one’s surprise, but Victor was pleased all the same with the achievement.  After he had broken the world record with his scores a few times, numbers weren’t really something he concerned himself with; he now preferred to focus on how a performance felt.  This one had made him feel… wonderful.

Wiping his face with a towel, Victor made his way to the designated seating area for the other participants, stopping to chat and graciously accept his congratulations on the way.  When he had finally sat down, two more skaters had taken their turn, leaving only… who?  The Italian and Japanese skaters respectively, if Victor recalled correctly (he rarely did).  However, this time turned out to be a pleasant surprise, with the redhead from Italy taking the ice shortly after he had completed the thought.  The routine that followed was decent, but lacking in inspiration, his arms and legs stiffly executing choreography with little grace.  Victor raised his feet onto the back of the seat ahead of him, glancing to his left at the sound of approaching footsteps.  It must have been Yuri; he could recognize the angry slap of Converse against pavement.

“The fucking geezer won’t let me skip the banquet, can you believe that?” the familiar Russian growl was in Victor’s ears shortly before the slim teen popped heavily into the seat beside the senior competitor.  The black hood from his otherwise tri-color jacket was thrown hastily over a mop of blond hair that stopped at his chin.  Victor shrugged with a smile, not understanding why anyone would want to miss it in the first place.  Mingling was fun, but then again, Victor was more agreeable than Yuri.  To put it lightly.  “I hate being forced to hang out with these losers.”

“Careful,” Victor chided playfully.  “You’re going to be competing against a lot more of them next year.”  Yuri huffed, the sound similar to a cheap cymbal effect on an electric keyboard.  Victor laughed internally at the idea of an entire soundboard app dedicated to the noises the junior made when offended or some form of angry--he would have bought three phones just to buy it three times.

“They can bring it on,” Yuri said, unnecessary challenge dripping from his voice as he similarly placed his feet on top of the chair that sat before him.  Victor wondered idly if Yuri knew that the weird sports anime he would watch weren’t actually anything like real life, and that the endless need to prove himself better than everyone else by being a jackass got old after a while.  But Victor supposed he could find that out on his own.  He was young.

The music started, the Japanese skater having taken the ice and begun his routine.  Arms flowed freely in the air, hitting the opposing beat of his feet, which worked to pick up speed.  His first jump, a triple axel, was landed by the skin of his teeth, ankle shaking as it carried him further into the choreography.  His interpretation was beautiful, body and limbs shifting with enough impetus that it made Victor believe for a moment that the skater was conducting the music with his motions.  It was the botched jumps that brought Victor out of his trance, the magic shattered from the sound of metal scratching loudly on ice.  What a shame.  This guy had a lot of potential, but something was holding him back, making him move just a bit too slowly to get enough control on the higher rotation jumps.  It could only be nerves.

One more introduction to the ground and the routine was over, emotion etched clearly on the dark-haired skater’s face.  Victor met his eyes, index finger hovering over his lips in contemplation.  There was something in that performance that had struck a chord with Victor, even through all the mistakes.  The way that he had conducted himself left Victor with a strong sense of understanding for his skill and passion for the sport.  It was nearly devastating to imagine what the routine could have been.

“What an idiot,” Yuri said, scoffing at the display.  “No way he’s coming back.  What’s his name?”

Victor shrugged.  The announcer said his name again as the audience applauded, “Yuri Katsuki” blaring over the loudspeakers above them.

“Yuri Katsuki,” Victor said quickly, as though he had known it the whole time.  The Russian Yuri looked annoyed (more annoyed than usual) and kicked the chair his feet had been stacked on before standing.

“He’ll definitely be gone next year.”  The declaration was said with an air of finality that almost made Victor believe him.  It wasn’t as though Victor didn’t trust in Yuri’s ability, but…

The word ‘retirement’ made itself known again, worming through the back of his brain just in case he had forgotten it.  For a moment, in the rush that followed his Free Skate, Victor had.

The skater, freshly turned 23, if the announcer was to be believed, waited at the Kiss and Cry with his coach, an Italian-American named Celestino, if Victor recalled correctly.  There was no way to confirm if his memory was on a roll, so Victor just counted it as a victory regardless.  The booming voice returned, announcing Katsuki’s scores a handful of minutes after the completion of his performance--the Free Skate had hurt him deeply, leaving him in last place with a combined score of 232.59.  It was obvious that the Japanese Yuri was struggling to keep his face neutral, a million emotions pulling at his lips and brows.  Folding his arms over his chest, Victor watched as the skater got to his feet, disappearing into the hallways leading into the arena.  A small pang of sympathy jetted across Victor’s chest; it had been quite a long time since he had placed that low, but he understood the frustration in knowing that you didn’t do your best.

The Victory Ceremony was short and sweet, the men taking their places at the podium before the ladies.  The final applause was deafening, and then… it stopped, the trance induced by the event fading away now that it was over.  Sadness crept over Victor’s shoulders as they slumped, watching everyone go their separate ways--it was hard not to feel down after the rush of everything was over, even with the Four Continents and World Championships on the horizon.  Ah, but there was the banquet tomorrow night, the one that Yuri had been so grumpily lamenting earlier.  Those were always some fun.  Mostly, Victor just liked free food.  As he pulled out his phone to text Yakov in an attempt to track him down, the Russian skater wondered if they would have those apple pastries from the year before.  

It wasn’t long before Yakov and his cloud of students were all gathered close to the entrance; Mila and Yuri chatted, the sour expression on Yuri’s face matched with a mischievous grin from Mila implying that she was teasing him about something or other.  The teen made a percussive, irritated noise with his mouth before turning to leave.  Victor, recalling the boy’s routine from earlier in the day, jogged a few steps to catch up with him as they crossed through the doorway leading into the lobby, where hundreds of excited voices chattered about the results of the nearly week-long event.

“Yuri!” Victor called out as he approached the younger man.  “About your free skate... Your step sequence could use a little more--”

“I won, so who cares?” came the arrogant reply, and Victor laughed in spite of himself.

“It’s not always about winning, Kitten.  It’s about bettering yourself.”

“Buuuuull shit,” Yuri rolled his eyes at the triteness of the platitude, extending the first syllable of the word for emphasis.  "Quit nagging, Victor."  It was difficult for Victor to disagree entirely, since he hardly ever lost.  A woman approached them tentatively from behind the ropes that marked off the walkway for athletes, asking for a photo.  Flashing a smile, Victor graciously agreed as he quickly posed while the disgruntled junior went off on a rant about a new routine, something about winning this year and choreography for next.  It was when Yakov started laying into Yuri for his attitude that Victor decided to ignore the conversation entirely, glancing off to the side as it continued without him.  Yuri’s eyes, somewhere between blue and green, kept traveling behind the champion as their coach went on, darkness clouding them each time they made contact with whatever he was glaring at.  Glancing over his shoulder, Victor spotted the Japanese competitor… other Yuri?  Was that his name?  That was easy to remember.  The skater’s eyes were locked with his for just a moment, face quickly going slack when he realized his stare was being returned.

For a moment, Victor tuned out the younger Russian, the sound in the room going quiet as he struggled to think of something to say.  He didn’t want to condescend to the other competitor with unwarranted advice, no matter how much his performance left to be desired.  This Yuri was also one of the greatest skaters in the world, despite not making the podium, and his non-technical aspects had proven that to Victor earlier in the night.  But he couldn’t just ignore the glance that they were sharing, let it go by without acknowledgement.  

“A commemorative photo?” Victor said, the words tumbling out of his mouth in English before he had a chance to think.  He smiled, despite feeling a bit dead on the inside at the awkward request.  Victor could usually get away with anything if he smiled.

Shock passed clearly through the other athlete, face tensing well before the rest of his body at the request.  Another moment passed, Victor’s smile attempting to warm the other Yuri enough to get him to agree, and then he turned, leaving the gold medalist alone with his fellow Russians.

It was hard not to feel a bit hurt at the refusal just from the sheer bluntness of it.  Victor couldn’t hide the pout that followed, his brows falling over his eyes as his lips pursed in displeasure.  He had wanted to say something, anything to the other skater that might make him feel a bit better about the job he had done today, but he had tripped on his tongue.  Rubbing the back of his head with a sigh, Victor turned to exit with Yakov and the others as they made their way back to their hotel.

Maybe he’d have a chance at the banquet.


	3. Unlikable

The cold water stung as he splashed it on his face, and he rubbed generously after wetting the skin to wake himself up.  It worked, the caffeine from the coffee he hastily brewed bubbling in his veins, making his limbs feel lighter.  That was better.

It was the following night and Victor was still in his hotel room; glancing up at himself in the mirror, he quickly turned off the spigot, the last few droplets hitting the white porcelain helplessly.  He patted around for a moment before happening upon the towel he left on the granite countertop, and he grabbed it before bringing it to his face and stepping out of the bathroom.  The room was modest, a queen-sized bed facing a floor to ceiling window with a generous view of the neighboring buildings.  The walls were painted an inoffensive beige, their surfaces curiously bare of any art.  It was an absence felt, though they were not missed.  

On the mattress rested a suit, meticulously flattened out across the sheets to protect it from wrinkling.  Victor’s efforts to keep it looking pressed had mostly been successful, though the same could not be said for the white button-up shirt he was planning to wear with it.  It had been a casualty of an unfortunate hanger incident, meaning it had rebelliously slid off of the plastic and landed in a crumpled heap on the floor, much like a child throwing a tantrum.  “ _ You’re not my real dad!”  _ the shirt seemed to exclaim to no one.  When Victor had discovered it, he clucked his tongue loudly in distaste and snatched it up to examine the damage.  The kinked-up fabric gave him a jagged smile spread unevenly across its surface, proud of its own handiwork.  

The shirt had had time to think about what it had done as it lay prone on the bed beside his other clothing, though its stillness had not improved the damage much.  At the very least, what was left could be easily hid under the buttons of his vest, black and perfectly tailored to match the rest of his pieces.  With a sigh, he slipped on his pants, the towel he had brought from the bathroom hanging limply over his bare shoulder.  After ruffling it quickly across the bits of bangs that clung to his cheek, he tossed it to the floor before putting on the rest of his suit.

A few buttons later and he was ready to go, standing in front of the full body mirror that was hung on the bathroom door.  Flicking the switch that illuminated the little entryway, Victor fidgeted with his sleeves as he examined himself in the small, shitty ceiling light that cut dark patterns into his face.  Tilting his chin up, Victor found a way to make it work to his advantage, resting his hands on his hips as he twisted and turned to make sure he looked presentable.

_ I’d fuck me _ , he thought to himself, the smile that inevitably followed the declaration appearing on his lips shortly after he had completed it.  It was his little ritual, answering the unspoken question with a reference to  _ Silence of the Lambs,  _ a movie he had watched without his parents’ permission in his pre-teen years.  It had been the first he went out of his way to see in English, mostly because it was one of the only ones that the little video rental store near his home had to offer.  The disturbing scene had lost some of it’s impact when he didn’t recognize the verb in the sentence.  He had never heard the word “fuck” before, never known what it had meant.  His parents had paled when he asked them, and he knew that he had done something deliciously forbidden--that movie represented his first small steps to adulthood.  Victor relished in their embarrassment so much that it had become an inside joke, one so personal that only he knew the punchline.

Crossing to the nightstand, Victor grabbed his iPhone before sending a hasty text to Chris, scrolling a bit more than he cared to admit through old conversations before giving up on finding any previous interaction and just typing his name manually into a fresh window.   _ Heading over in a minute! _ He tapped the ‘send’ button and tucked it into his coat pocket.  There were only two pieces left to complete his outfit--a small, navy pocket square and his favorite teal dress socks, two small splashes of color amongst the monochrome of his suit.  Then it was just a matter of slipping on his shoes and out the door.

He walked briskly down the hallway, the coffee now in full effect as he rapped cheerfully on Chris’ door, the Swiss giving a warm smile as he opened it.

“Is that silver medalist Christophe Giacometti?!” Victor exclaimed, a sly grin plastering itself on his face as he joked.  “I can’t believe it, I’ve always wanted to meet you.”

Chris’ expression changed, however subtly, lips closing over teeth as the smile left his eyes.  He covered it quickly, turning as he stepped out and pulled the door shut behind him.  As he came back to face the gold medalist, Chris kept the new look on his face as he extended his elbow.  Victor graciously took it, wrapping his arm through the crook of the joint.

“I won’t say I’m not disappointed,” Chris said, seemingly from nowhere, as they made their way to the elevator arm-in-arm.  Guilt skittered across Victor, a quick and fleeting impulse in response to a joke that now felt like it might have been made in poor taste.  It was easy for Victor to act like silver was a big accomplishment.  He hadn’t been beaten out for gold by the same person as many times as Chris had.  “But congratulations all the same, Victor.”

“There’s no one I’d rather share the podium with,” Victor smiled in a much more genuine way than he had before, hoping to soothe the feathers he had ruffled.  Chris seemed to accept the apology, grunting out a small laugh as he reached for the call button.

“Not even that Jean-Jacques guy?” the Swiss asked, sarcasm dripping from his voice.  Victor blinked, scanning his memory of who he was referring to but coming up blank.  After an inquisitive glance from the Russian, Chris sighed, taking his arm back from his friend for a moment before arranging his hands and fingers into two descending “J”s while giving a hearty roll of his eyes.  The Canadian competitor immediately came to mind, his proud declaration from the bronze step of something being ‘JJ STYLE’ ringing in his ears.

“Ah,” the noise escaped Victor, and Chris laughed, the responding sound deep and musical.  Victor couldn’t help but laugh as well, the two of them leaning heavily on the rails inside the car once the doors opened and they entered the lift.  When they had calmed themselves, Victor shook his head.  “That was certainly something.”

Chris shrugged, saying, “At least he’s confident.”

The doors opened again, revealing the younger, crankier Russian behind them.  Yuri glared at the two existing occupants from behind his blond bob, tufts of hair blocking one of his eyes, and stepped into the box with them before shoving himself in a corner.  His arms were folded tightly across his chest, navy blue suit already wrinkling under the force of his grumpiness.

“I suppose,” Victor mused in response, eyes traveling back to his Swiss companion.  “I just don’t know where he gets the energy.” 

“He’s young,” Chris pointed out, and Victor couldn’t hold back a sigh.  At 18, JJ was nearly 10 years his junior.  For a single moment, every injury the gold medalist had amassed in his career ached at once.  Meanwhile, the smaller Russian rolled his eyes.

“How old  _ are  _ you guys?  80?” Yuri chided, tenor voice cracking in disgust.

“I’m 79 until February, thank you very much,” came the retort from the Swiss, and Victor chuckled; his friend looked pleased that he had made the other laugh, beaming with pride for just a moment.

“I think I’m just going to celebrate 25 for a few more years,” Victor winked.

“Good, if they buy your lie that’ll give me more time as well,” the silver medalist chimed back in.  Eyes lighting up, Victor’s index finger hovered over his lips, a plan formulating behind it.

“An alibi,” he whispered dramatically.  “I like it.”

Something that sounded like a disgusted noise came from the tiny third wheel still pressed into the corner, eyes flat and angry as he listened to the seniors banter.  Relief washed over his face as the elevator announced they had reached the lobby, nearly sprinting when the doors opened.  He was cut short, however, by Victor’s hands on his shoulders.

“Shoelaces,” he said, nodding towards the untied offenders on the kitten’s right foot.  “Wouldn’t want you to trip when you storm out.  Ruins the effect.”  Yuri’s eyes, iced over with silent rage that never seemed to subside, burned into him from beneath knitted brows for just a moment before he went to work on his foot.

“Let’s get this over with,” Yuri grunted as he straightened back up, Chris and Victor already scrolling absentmindedly through their social media feeds while they waited.  Pressing the button on the side of his phone, Victor waited for the satisfying  _ click!  _ from the speakers before tucking it back into his pocket.  He moved his hand to Yuri’s shoulder to give it a pat, the gesture from Victor lacking in sympathy but done in an attempt to show support.

“You never know!  It could be fun.”  The words were hopeful, but Victor was always nearly annoyingly optimistic.

The ballroom was a fair distance from the elevators, hidden behind a few sharp turns down a wide hallway, the carpet leading them there boasting a loud pattern despite the dull color palate.  Textured wallpaper colored an off-white was slapped on either side of them.  There were a series of meeting rooms that the hotel offered to guests willing to rent them out, the biggest and most lavish housing the traditional banquet following the Grand Prix Final this year.  The room, large enough to house the hundreds of skaters, coaches, friends and family members, had cold limestone floors; they reflected the light from three crystal chandeliers that hung from the ceiling, twinkling as they greeted the new arrivals.

At the moment, the room felt a bit too vast; they were one of the first to arrive, with only a handful of people sprinkled throughout the floor, though most were concentrated near the buffet tables lining the sides.  The three new arrivals were no exception to the rule, making a beeline for the food as soon as it was spotted.  During this part of the season, they were nearly perpetually starving from the sheer amount of practice and performances, and Victor had spent most of the day in bed, grazing on the few offerings from the minibar as he gave his body a well-deserved rest.  But now, he was  _ ready _ for  _ food _ .

Yuri took no prisoners, his plate burdened with an obscene amount, multiple piroshkis stacked precariously beside piles of other munchies; Victor wondered idly where the kid was gonna fit all of that before remembering that he was 15.  Silently cursing his metabolism, Victor grabbed a much more modest spread before fluttering around the room to greet people.  The Japanese Yuri was absent, something that saddened Victor since he would have appreciated the opportunity to speak with him before he had a chance to ignore the gold medalist and escape into the crowd again.  It was, however, difficult to admit that there was some relief in the discovery as well, since the idea that the competitor might have disliked Victor was something he had only just started to consider.

To say that Victor loved people was a bit of an understatement.  Victor loved  _ everything  _ about people; he loved the idea that each person was so completely unique, unlike anyone else he had ever met before.  He loved how different everyone could look, loved how vastly someone’s opinions could differ from the next, loved that each collection of experiences allowed every man and woman to see the world he lived in completely differently from himself.  As a child, Victor would proudly proclaim that he wanted to meet every single person in the world, and thankfully, his career as a competitive ice skater had allowed him to put a nice dent in the amount that remained (which was still ridiculously close to 7 billion).

There were some people he loved more than others, of course.  But Victor’s relationships usually bore a similar resemblance to his routines--he preferred to keep moving, leaping and twirling away whenever anyone got too close.  It wasn’t something he did consciously, but anything too deep required effort, and Victor just didn’t have the time.  It was more fun to meet people and just move on.

Victor met a gaggle of Junior skaters that had been watching him since he entered the room, their faces lighting up with both delight and terror as he introduced himself.  Following that, Victor flitted to a large American woman, an Opera singer who was currently performing at the Bolshoi theater in Moscow.  Her voice was round and warm, just like she was, and her green eyes sparkled as they discussed their respective crafts.  Victor wondered if he ever looked as in love with his work as she did when he spoke about it.  

Yakov was the next stop on his erratic journey across the room, now comfortably full with occupants.  Grinning, Victor threw an arm around his coach as he greeted him warmly, “We did it again!”  Despite Victor’s dissatisfaction with the future, it was still difficult not to be a  _ little  _ pleased with himself in the moment.

“Yes, we did,” Yakov said, and even he was touched by the cheer present in the room.  He wore a small smile, rough around the edges as it disappeared into the prominent wrinkles at the corners of his mouth.  “You’ll have to actually work next year now that Yuri’s in your bracket.  Maybe you’ll start listening to what I have to say.”

“But then I’d be taking advice from someone working with the enemy!” Victor said, mock distrust painting the phrase.  He pointed at Yuri, standing near the group of Juniors Victor had spoken with earlier, his face the normal portrait of annoyance while one of the girls chatted at him.  She touched his arm gently as she laughed; he recoiled, and it felt like Victor was on the playground again for just a moment.  “Look at him.  Ruthless.  Those are the eyes of someone who would do anything to win.”  Yuri’s face was now twisted into something resembling a smile, most likely to try and make up for the offense he had caused his conversation “partner”.  Was he actually trying?  Cute.

“What  _ are  _ your plans for next year, Vitya?” the question was blunt, not a polite inquiry into the future but a query as to the continuation of their working relationship.  “It seems everyone thinks you’re retiring aside from me.  I don’t want to make myself look like a fool when I tell them that isn’t true.”

The pause that followed was too long, the appropriate words to say floating around Victor’s head mixed with many more that weren’t.  Finding which ones were safe to grab was difficult.  It seemed, however, that Victor had said enough with his silence, and Yakov’s face quite literally darkened as his prominent brows pulled down closer to his eyes. 

“I haven’t decided,” the admission was quiet, sheepish, sad, hesitant, frustrated, the emotions balled tightly within him, a heavy lump that migrated between his stomach and chest.  

“You’ve still got lots of years left,” came the nearly comforting reply.  “Why waste them by retiring?”

Victor shrugged, genuine uncertainty showing itself as a hand unconsciously traveled to the back of his head.  He ran his fingers back and forth across the short hairs there, enjoying the soft bristling of the movement against his fingers and skull. 

“I… don’t know,” he said, and he truly meant the words.  It was something he had never spoken aloud.  He didn’t know what to say.  Didn’t know how to say it.  But Yakov deserved to know, either way.  “It’s… just… hard to see the point in continuing.”

The scoff that followed was one Victor should have expected.

“Only you could get tired of success,” Yakov grunted, shaking his head in disbelief.  A sheepish laugh escaped Victor, short and powerless.  It was certainly a problem that was difficult to relate to, Victor could admit.

“It’s not the success,” he admitted, more truth sneaking out from between his lips.  “It’s more… I don’t really know what else to do at this point.  How do we keep them surprised?”  Now it was Yakov’s turn to shrug, the older man’s priorities obviously differing from his protege’s.

“Why does it matter, at this point?” Yakov sniffed.  “There’s no shame in settling into something more comfortable.”  It wasn’t an unreasonable proposition, but it was one that left Victor with a strong sense of discomfort.  

“I like taking pride in my work,” he said, suddenly feeling very young, uncertainty and insecurity inching around him like a heavy cloak.

“There’s plenty of pride in cashing the check and paying your bills,” Yakov said.  Victor nodded, though it felt wrong to agree.  He had already bought his apartment outright, and didn’t have much that he needed to save money for; cashflow had never been something he really concerned himself with, though his tendency of visiting designer stores had burned a considerable hole in his pocket.

Victor smiled, though it didn’t reach his eyes, and he quickly suggested, “Let’s talk about this again when we get back to St. Petersburg.”  His coach looked at him dubiously before giving his cautious agreement.  Bidding a quick farewell, Victor crossed over to Yuri to rescue him from the younger competitors, who were showering him with questions about technique.  Steam was very nearly billowing out of the kitten’s ears when Victor took his shoulder and made up his best lie about someone wanting to meet him.  If his young friend were capable of showing real gratitude, Victor saw it in his eyes as they walked away.

The two of them took up residence near the entry door, Yuri leaning heavily against the wall.  His face implied a strong desire to melt into it.  In an attempt at solidarity, Victor did his best to block Yuri from the rest of the room with his body, giving the boy a moment to breathe and step away from his cranky precipice.

“You look like you’re having fun,” Victor grinned.  His friend scowled.

Despite being more than an hour past the start time, people still trickled in from the entrance; Yuri’s eyes longingly stared out into the hallway each time the doors opened, and Victor attempted to distract him with conversation about a Christmas event that was coming up for an app they both played.  This seemed to work, the smaller Russian’s face contorting into something close to congeniality as he shared a new approach to the gameplay he had discovered for a stage that Victor was still stuck on.  Whipping out his phone, Victor opened the game, asking for a more concrete demonstration in a poorly veiled attempt to get the junior to clear it for him.  It worked, the younger man so eager for distraction that he walked right into Victor’s trap.  A victorious smirk spread across Victor’s lips, and were he a villain in a movie this was where he imagined his evil cackle would be.

As Yuri tapped the screen in time with the rhythmic sequence that flashed brightly on the device, the door beside them opened again, revealing the broad, smiling face of the Italian-American coach that came with the Japanese competitor, who was only a few steps behind.  Victor’s heart leapt in his throat as he glanced away, hiding his face from the other for a moment as he passed them with indifference. 

“Eh?” Yuri grunted in confusion at the sudden movement, unused to seeing Victor panic, however small it was.  His eyes immediately latched onto his Japanese counterpart, eyelids drooping in disgust as he raised an eyebrow.  “Oh.”

After he was certain the newcomer had passed, Victor glanced over his shoulder, eyes searching the others’ face--the skater hadn’t spotted him, thankfully, but that seemed to be because he was in a world of his own.  His hair, freshly washed, hung damply over his head, scruffy bangs teasing the top rims of the glasses he was now wearing.  The poor guy looked miserable, something else he had in common with Victor’s Yuri; his lips were pulled firmly down, eyes hidden behind the glare on his lenses as he made his way to the corner with the most champagne.

“What’s with you?” Yuri asked incredulously, eyes traveling between Victor’s uneasy expression and his hands, fingers nervously twitching as they cleaned under the opposing nails.  Victor quickly pulled his hands apart, unaware that he had started fidgeting.  

“Hm?  Nothing,” he said, and mostly meant it.  A devilish grin spread across the kitten’s lips in response.

“This is about the picture, isn’t it?” Yuri asked, and Victor could feel the truth in the statement poke into him.  A blush painted his cheeks, and he was grateful that at least one of them was covered with his hair.

“Well, what if he doesn’t like me?” Victor couldn’t help but pout for a moment, folding his arms.

“Oh no, one person in the whole fucking world might not like Victor Nikiforov,” Yuri said, voice winding and twirling the pitch of the phrase to show the full scope of its ridiculousness.  “Who cares?”

It might have been easier to see the merit in what his friend was trying to say had Victor not just been emasculated by his coach and chided for making bad jokes by Chris in the hallway earlier.  But in that moment, it was hard for Victor to shake the feeling that he might be just a little unlikable.

Victor glanced over at the Japanese Yuri again, a glass already between his fingers as he tilted the bottom heavenward.  The Russian debated crossing over to get his own drink, and if they just so happened to make idle chit-chat while he was there, so be it… But the other Yuri faced the wall as he set his first glass down and immediately picked up another, sending a clear message to everyone in the room:  _ leave me alone. _

  
With a sigh, Victor went back to convincing the Russian Yuri to unpause the game on his phone.  Maybe he’d have better luck after the skater had a few drinks.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you're enjoying so far! I was originally going to try and squeeze the whole GPF banquet into this chapter, but it turns out Yakov and Chris had other ideas. So the real fun starts in the next chapter. *waggles eyebrows*
> 
> Will endeavor have more up close to the new year!


	4. Dance Battle

A few drinks came more quickly than anyone could have imagined, each glance in the Japanese Yuri’s direction revealing more empty glasses. Victor wondered if the wall was really as interesting as he seemed to think it was; the skater hadn’t turned to face the room in any of the time the Russian had his eyes on him, which admittedly was less and less as the night went on.  In truth, Victor now possessed more than his fair share of liquor, though he was nowhere near putting the quietest occupant in the room to shame.  How many flutes were there, anyway?  10?  12?  

And then, it happened, the skater transforming suddenly from a self-loathing fly on the wall to a bottle-toting menace.  The metamorphosis was not instantaneous, each glass adding to the cocoon that would eventually reveal the beautiful drunken butterfly within.  Victor had not seen the moment Yuri had emerged, his occasional glance to that part of the room coming up empty somewhere around 9pm; there was a gap in the glasses lining the table against the wall showing where Yuri’s body had been, much like the tape outline on a crime scene.  But the form that had been there was now on its way to him, much to Victor’s surprise.  The Russian had not seen Yuri prowling through the crowd, the young man having given up on drinking out of individual glasses and now just opting for the entire bottle, which dangled precariously between his fingers.

Victor had been humoring conversation with one of the judges from the event, an older gentleman with an affinity for model trains (apparently, as it was the only topic of conversation the man felt like lingering on).  The kitten continued to lean on the wall, content that he was being ignored, much to Victor’s chagrin.  

“E-Excuse me!” the stuttering voice that cut into Victor’s one-sided exchange was a welcome one, moreso for the opportunity to escape it than anything else.  It was difficult to keep the palpable relief off of his face as Victor turned to face the interruption, nearly leaping out of his skin when he spotted the Japanese skater beside him.  His dark eyes burned with purpose, though his already pink cheeks turned positively scarlet at the sight of Victor.  Cute.

“Oh!  It’s Yuri, right?” Victor said a little too eagerly, the energy mostly a polite signal to the judge who still wanted to bend his ear.  The man seemed to receive the hint, loudly greeting someone else as he walked away; Yuri was alarmed that Victor had addressed him, eyes darting between the two Russians before him in a panic.

“Yes,” he answered tentatively in English, having difficulty meeting Victor’s steady gaze, though it was difficult to tell if that was because he was intimidated or angry.  

“Oh, I’m so glad you’re here,” Victor dialed up the charm, sweet smile returning to his face, which only seemed to darken the color in Yuri’s cheeks.  Oh, he was  _ cute. _  “I knew you’d want a picture!  The banquet is probably better for that.  We look better this way, don’t you think?”  Ah, the cursed picture had come up again.  Victor was so used to having that as an excuse for an ice-breaker that he quite honestly felt a bit at a loss as to how to start a conversation.

“That’s not important right now,” The Japanese guest brushed off the awkward suggestion just as bluntly as he had the first time, an arrow of rejection sticking itself firmly in Victor’s heart as he was cut out of the exchange completely.  Turning his attention fully on his Russian counterpart, Yuri pointed an accusing finger squarely at the center of Plisetsky’s chest.  The blond had glanced up from his phone, expression twisting into one of disgust; their eyes met, and the Japanese skater’s mouth gave a frown of determination that didn’t seem to match his doe-like eyes.  “You!  Y-You unrespected me today.”  A pause, most likely as he realized that the drinks he had pounded back made grammar in a foreign language more difficult.  “DISrespected.  You did that.  You kicked my bathroom--”

“Wha--” Victor couldn’t stop the half-completed exclamation.  Yuri continued to struggle with English words, tongue wrapping around them awkwardly.  In a moment, Victor had his phone out and camera app open--were the kitten to ask, Victor would claim it was to document any wrongdoing.  In actuality, he wanted to remember the night that Yuri had kicked someone’s bathroom.  Apparently.

“You kicked me right in the bathroom.  Right in the door of… You  _ disrespected me! _ ”  He seemed to return to the simplest thought that he knew would express what he wanted to say, jabbing his finger in the air again as champagne jumped out of the neck of the bottle.  Victor clicked a quick photo, the close-up out of focus but certainly less blurry than the memories that would be left in the poor boy’s head after that much drinking.  Japanese Yuri sipped at what had gathered between the glass and the webbing of his thumb before continuing.  “So y-you know what you’re going to do?  You are gon’ dance at me.”  A pause as he reevaluated what he had said.  “We are going to dance at each other.  Like this.

Yuri spun on his heel, striking a pose (click--another photo) before facing them again and kicking his leg high into the air, pouring champagne into his mouth with more grace than could ever be expected (click--ooh, that was a good one).  Thankfully, his foot hit the ground before he plummeted down to meet it face to face, and Yuri stomped back to the Russians, having attracted a few stares from the room at his display.

“Dance battle,” the phrase left the Japanese man’s mouth in his native language as soon as he remembered it, and thankfully it was the same as it was in English, though with a few additional syllables; Victor felt his heart soar at the proclamation.  This was the sort of thing one only saw in those shitty American movies about partying, it was never something he could have imagined witnessing, let alone with the cranky Junior whose face was currently changing colors.  Victor found himself holding his breath, hoping that the other would say yes to the world’s most unconventional proposal.

“You want to challenge  _ me _ to a dance-off?” the Russian Yuri pushed himself from the wall, eyes flashing in an attempt threaten the other, who was now so empowered with alcohol that no amount of intimidation could make him back down from his challenge.  Plisetsky stepped towards the other with purpose, and in the distance, Victor could see Chris’ attention firmly turned to the spectacle that was unfolding before them.  Hastily, Victor tapped out a quick message to the other:  _ Get your camera. _  “You couldn’t even dance your way to the podium,  _ idiot _ .  You really think you can beat me?”

“You won gold for babies,” the other Yuri spat, taking a large step towards his target to stand nose-to-nose with him.  Russian Yuri bristled, blond hair nearly standing on end.  Sparks flew as their eyes burned into each other with silent threat.

“You know what they call me?” The Russian growled, accent getting in the way.  “The Ice Tiger of Russia.

A pause stood between them, and the Japanese man blinked in confusion, voice suddenly drained of any emotion as he asked, “What does that even mean?”

“ _ Who calls you that? _ ” Victor asked in Russian, not devoid of his own amount of bewilderment at the proclamation.

“ _ Lots of people. _ ”

“ _ Who specifically? _ ”

“ _ People!! _ ”

“No one calls him that,” Victor clarified in English, feeling a bit like a Snopes article.  But much like on Touchbook, Victor could not let falsehoods of any kind stand without challenge, be them urban myths about poisonous spiders or outrageous claims of nonsensical nicknames.  Watching Plisetsky’s face turn a deep shade of red was reward enough for his truth-telling.

“Fine!  You want a dance battle?”  the kitten held his iPhone out to Victor for the senior to hold, and he gleefully took it.  “Let’s fucking do it.  Right now.   _ I  _ pick the music.”

The two continued to talk smack at each other as Victor darted through the crowd, his feet nearly floating off the ground as he made a beeline for someone he knew, Mila being the first person he bumped into.  She turned to face him, alarmed at his sudden proximity.

“It’s an emergency,” Victor said breathlessly, placing both of his hands on her shoulders as he spun her around to face him.  “I need a bluetooth speaker.”

A red eyebrow inched upward in suspicion, her conversation partner similarly taken aback by the sudden intrusion.  Mila did not question the validity of the claim, instead going quickly for the purse she had hidden under the table and pulling out a small speaker from within it.  Victor accepted it, almost in awe--this really was 2012.  The future was bright, and full of awkward gyrating from two young men that were close to the same level of maturity, thanks to the magic of booze.  Bless this night, he thought gleefully as he planted a quick kiss on the black surface of the device.  Bidding adieu to his friend, he turned and nearly tripped over another.

“Chris!” Victor cried, reaching into the pocket where he had hastily shoved Yuri’s cell phone before producing it for the Swiss.  “Thank god you’re here.  I need your help.  Take pictures.  Lots of pictures."

“Can I ask what of?” Chris asked cautiously, expression somewhere between dubious and amused.  The Russian patted the bluetooth speaker, joy overflowing from the impending declaration.  

“A  _ dance-off! _ ”  Victor laughed in delight before darting back to the thunderstorm developing in the room, now relocated to a corner to be more out of the way.  This was the holy grail of situations to be a bystander for.  It was like dying and being reincarnated into a dog--there was nothing better.

With shaking hands, Victor quickly connected his phone to the speaker as he made his way to the Yuris, finding the catchiest song he could find as he cranked up the volume on the little device.  It vibrated in his hands, his heart quickly matching the beat of the song as he breathlessly approached the warriors.  Plisetsky’s face darkened.

“I said  _ I  _ would pick the music,” he said, and Victor shook his head, thinking up a quick excuse to cover the fact that he didn’t want to wait a  _ single second longer _ to experience the wonder that was a dance battle.

“You might throw the match,” Victor explained, and even he was convinced.  “You might pick something difficult to dance to.”

“Psh,” the junior scoffed.  “Fine.  I don’t need an advantage.”

The drunk Yuri was already moving, grabbing the other by the wrist before giving him a quick spin and pulling him close, their eyes meeting, expressions clashing.

“No more talking,” he said quietly before releasing Plisetsky, who looked as though he might explode.  It was hard for Victor to keep the twinkle from his eyes, enjoying the force behind the order; this was certainly not what Victor had expected from Yuri.

And with that, their bodies began to move to the same beat, the motions completely independent.  When one dancer would flourish, the other would respond in kind, each surge of energy growing in intensity as they attempted to outdo each other.  The junior would leap into the air, arms flung wide out at his sides as his legs tucked themselves under his ass; the 6th place finalist dove onto his hands, legs twisting around themselves in the air as he was held vertically in place using only the strength of his arms and core.  Breakdancing?  That wasn’t something you saw much in these circles.  Victor snapped a few photos, glancing over at Chris to make sure he was doing the same--the Swiss had attempted to balance one phone in each hand, but quickly gave up and focused instead on taking them with the phone Victor had handed him.  He made a mental note to send them to the silver medalist later as thanks.

It wasn’t long before Victor gave up on taking pictures himself, opting instead to melt into the small crowd that had surrounded them, applauding every new attempt to show off.  Surprisingly, the drunk Yuri was having much more success, his lack of inhibitions allowing him to take risks that the other just wasn’t willing to.  To be frank, it was miraculous; Victor had been that drunk in different parts of his life and had hardly been able to stand, let alone move with the fluidity and control that Yuri exhibited.  Maybe the Japanese man just needed a few shots before each performance.

Somehow, in the course of that thought, the dark-haired skater had removed his tie, tightening it around his forehead.  Victor laughed; maybe drinks weren’t the best idea, after all.

An arbitrary amount of time passed before the gold medalist stepped in, asking the audience for their input on the victor, who was unquestioningly the loser of the Grand Prix Final.  Victor held the winner’s hand into the air, blush creeping back into Yuri’s cheeks as he was appreciated by his adoring audience; brown eyes kept darting to Victor’s, and the Russian met his gaze, unable to stop the smile that crept across his face at the bashful look that was there to meet him.  Their glance lasted a little too long, enough to make a heat spread across the bridge of Victor’s nose. After a moment, Yuri looked towards Plisetsky, so smug that he looked like an entirely different person.

“See you next year.”  His voice was congenial and quiet, but his expression betrayed the challenge in it.  The kitten scoffed, storming off in search of a nearby table to sit and sulk at.  The crowd, losing interest in the display, began to disperse; Chris pushed his way to the two remaining men in the middle, issuing his own provocation.

“Beating a child is easy,” the Swiss said, one flared hand resting on his hip as Amber eyes flashed with mischievous intent.   “But you couldn’t beat me yesterday.  Care to try again?”

Yuri’s face remained neutral as he met the eyes of the competitor who bested him.  Victor didn’t know what to expect from the boy, didn’t know how he would react from such a direct prod.  Grin widening, Chris continued.  “Let’s make it more interesting this time.”

A pole appeared in his hands, seemingly from nowhere; cries of excitement could be heard from nearby, catcalls and wolf whistles rippling across the crowd.  At this development, Yuri erupted into a determined grin, face illuminated at the prospect of such friendly competition.  He was entirely different than the man who had walked in the room, his face now portraying his emotions in real time, cranked to 11.  Now, Yuri was stealing glances of Victor again, the smirk from before now fading to a hint of a smile.

Blinking, Victor pulled his mind from the tangent it had gone off on as he turned to Chris, who was currently busying himself with setting up what could only be a portable stripper pole. 

“...Why do you have this?” Victor was more impressed than anything else.  The Swiss took no offense, replying without shame, “I have to keep in shape on the road somehow.  I can practice nearly anywhere I want with this.”

It was a valid response, but there was a better question that should have been addressed, and the Russian quickly asked it: “Why did you bring it here?”

A shrug, then, “Why not?”

There was no way to argue with that, he supposed.  Chris quickly handed back the phone Victor had forced on him previously, making the Russian promise on his life that he would photographically document the history that would follow.  Victor understood this sacred duty, and agreed to it.  Performing the world’s sexiest magic trick, the Swiss’ clothes were gone a moment later, a small pair of black briefs the only thing left clinging to his hips.  It was not an unwelcome sight, but Victor could feel heat in his nose again, spreading to his cheeks as he turned and saw that Yuri’s pants were off as well.  He wasn’t necessarily embarrassed, but he was a little drunk, and half-naked men were one of his many weaknesses.

This dance-off was much less structured, each man patiently waiting their turn as the other wrapped themselves around the pole.  They posed, each more graceful than the last, their muscles flexing proudly in plain sight.  It was difficult for Victor to balance his acknowledgment of their skill with… everything else.  Victor the intellectual saw Yuri creating a hovering parallel line to the floor with his body using only his thighs, tightly squeezed around the pole, and appreciated the skill and control it took to stay there.  The deep, dark, uncivilized part of Victor was taking careful consideration of the swell of Yuri’s flexed quad over his knee, the sharp cut of his obliques as he arched his upper body up towards the ceiling, feet still straight behind him.  Through sheer force of will, the Russian was able to peel his eyes away long enough to take a few snapshots.

Victor released a breath he didn’t realize he had been holding when Chris and Yuri’s time on the pole started to blend together, Yuri’s biceps twitching as he supported the full weight of his dance partner, both of their bodies floating above the ground as the Japanese man dipped Chris in midair; the sheer amount of strength he displayed made Victor’s knees a little weak.  The poor Russian nearly had to look away, blowing out a long exhale to keep the mental images at bay as he clicked another photo.  When that ended, and subsequently, the dance off, it was the best and worst moment of Victor’s life.  No victor was declared, but the Russian felt like everyone who was able to witness the display was a winner.

The crowd went their separate ways, but Victor remained, helping Yuri locate the clothing he had strewn across the room in the midst of his performance.  After tossing him his shirt, Victor located his pants and jacket, carelessly thrown on a nearby tabletop.  As he returned, Yuri was still trying to button his shirt, fingers pushing the fabric off the plastic with each attempt.  A smile cracked the Russian’s face, who chuckled lightly at the childish display.  Gently, Victor brushed away the drunk’s hands; he felt the other jump at the touch, pulling back his hands as though Victor were burning hot.  The medalist made quick work of the other skater’s buttons in silence, watching Yuri’s cheeks tint themselves as it continued. 

“You’re real,” the declaration was breathless, as though he couldn’t believe it.  Victor finished up the last button, bringing his eyes to meet Yuri’s as he chuckled at the obviousness of the statement, the depth of thought the other had put into it completely lost on him.  The Russian smiled as he grabbed Yuri’s tie, widening the neck loop to get it over the other’s head, but tightening it just above his eyebrows.

“Sure am,” Victor replied, tugging the end of the tie once for each word in the phrase.  Now it was Yuri’s turn to smile, face matching the rosy colors in his cheeks, wide brown eyes blinking in appreciation.  Shit, he was cute.  Like a baby seal.  But a baby seal that could apparently bench press a man with its tiny flippers.  Shaking his head, the Russian cleared his mind to focus on the task at hand, which was helping dress the beautiful fool in his underwear who couldn’t seem to figure out how to get his tie around his own neck.  “Now, where are your pants…?”

This seemed to distress Yuri, who cried out in alarm and threw his arms around Victor’s neck.  The medalist froze for a moment, arms pinned tightly to his sides by the drunk, whose hips seemed to be moving of their own accord.  Victor fought to ignore the friction lingering at the tops of his thighs, turning his thoughts back to baby seals, which still made him think of the man that was currently attached to him.

“No pants,” Yuri mumbled against Victor’s chest, and the Russian glanced down as the Japanese man looked up, their faces impossibly close.  “One more dance battle.”  There were those extra syllables, hidden in his accent, drawing out the word, making it unique to Yuri.  Victor blinked, trying to pull himself out of the trance he had started inevitably falling into when meeting his gaze.

“Against who?” Victor chuckled, glancing around the room to have the excuse of avoiding eye contact.  “Oh!  How about Yakov?  I would pay to see that.”

Furiously, Yuri shook his head, the tie remaining in place despite all his fumbling with it.

“You.”

A nervous chuckle escaped Victor, who still did not have the ability to use his arms.  Watching Yuri from the sidelines was an intense enough experience, and though Victor had spent the better part of his life dancing in front of other people, this proposition brought with it a small amount of anxiety that curled in the base of his ribs; surprise at the interest from someone who had so strongly rejected his attempts at conversation twice in the last 24 hours, mixed thoroughly with the bittersweet nervousness that came with being this close to an attractive someone who was pantsless and still rubbing their hips  _ very  _ liberally against him.  In the back of his mind, Victor also felt a small amount of embarrassment at the idea of trying to live up to the previous two spectacles he had witnessed.  What if he wasn’t as good as the others?

_ Don’t be ridiculous, you’re Victor Nikiforov. _

His internal monologue was right.  That thought wasn’t even worth the energy to continue, so he dropped it.

“Victor,” the drunk had his face pressed into Victor’s chest again, hot breath warming the fabric beneath it.  “After this season ends, my family runs a hot spring resort, so please come.”

They were looking at each other again now as the skater pulled away, Yuri’s nostrils flared and face dotted with sweat, most of which had already been rubbed off on the medalist’s shirt.  This man, so completely free of shame or composure, was completely different than the one that had performed his Free Skate yesterday; Victor could still see the expression he wore after it was done, weighed down with disappointment and frustration, so foreign to everything the Russian had seen in him in the last few hours as he let loose without regard for others’ opinions of him.  Everything the skater had done at the banquet was for himself, not for attention or to live up to anyone’s expectations--this was the real Yuri, and Victor wanted to see more of it.

“If I win this dance-off…” He was speaking again, and Victor was only just becoming aware of the fact that they had an audience.  “You’ll be my coach, right?”

‘Coach’.  The word bounced around in his head, reminding Victor of the poolside conversation he and Chris had shared a couple of nights ago, the suggestion’s uncanny timeliness not lost on the Russian.  Where a drunken crush once stood, Victor now saw opportunity, his future reflected brightly in wet, brown eyes.  There was an endless amount of untapped potential in Yuri; Victor had seen it in his performance, and in the way he moved tonight.  His inability to drag his eyes away was not entirely due to that little voice that sang in the back of his mind whenever he saw Yuri’s body twist and turn.

Suddenly, Yuri’s arms were thrown around the back of his neck, his body flush against Victor’s as he seemed to be hit with excitement at his own idea.  Nuzzling his nose into the medalist’s chest, Yuri proclaimed again, louder this time, “Be my coach, Victor!”

His ‘V’ came out with a hint of a ‘B’ in the consonant, and he seemed to sing the Russian’s name before flipping the ‘r’.  Though it had belonged to him his entire life, Victor had never heard his name said that way, and in that moment, never wanted to hear it differently.  Something clicked, warmth flooding through him from everything the young man seemed to promise, and maybe it was just the few drinks that Victor had downed himself, but this did not seem like a bad idea.

The Russian laughed, mostly to keep his thoughts from snowballing, and placed a hand on the small of Yuri’s back before giving it a pat.  Victor had a habit of getting carried away with outlandish ideas when he was bored, and for lack of a better word, that’s how he felt with his career at the moment.  Once upon a time, when he grew frustrated with his failed attempts at choreographing the routines that eventually gave him his third set of gold medals, Victor found himself on the Trans Siberian Railway for four days.  It had worked, the change of scenery enough to jostle his brain into working for him.  No one at home had taken kindly to the idea, as he had done it at the last minute without speaking to a single person.  While that particular instance was fun and ultimately ended well, taking Yuri on as a student wasn’t something he’d be able to stop when he felt like. 

“Let’s… get some pants on first,” his willpower shuddered as Victor brushed off the tempting suggestion.  The ‘hot spring’ part of Yuri’s proposal had only just sunk in.  As the Russian felt his head spin from the sheer amount of thoughts swirling within it, he added quickly, “...And some water.”

After assisting Yuri with the remaining parts of his ensemble and passing off the borrowed phone to its cranky owner, Yuri and Victor found a table; the drunk waited patiently while Victor retrieved water for the both of them.  As the Russian returned, Yuri mumbled, “I want more drink.”

“You’re in luck,” Victor smiled at the grammar, his head still buzzing from his own liquid decisions.  “Here is more drink.”  The water placed before him on the table was an unsatisfactory offering to Yuri, who looked at it dubiously.

“No no, I want more  _ drink _ .”   It was now that the Russian realized that the other man had consumed too much alcohol to remember the word for it, and he knew that neither of them needed any more for the evening.  With a frown, Victor checked his watch--2230.  Not too much longer before the event organizers would kick them all out (though, in all honesty, it was surprising that they hadn’t been kicked out earlier, given the disturbances).  In the background, he could still hear the bluetooth speaker diligently playing a mindless pop song from Victor’s library.  He made a mental note to delete it later.

“Yes, I know,” he said quickly, bringing his own water to his lips for a quick sip as he bought himself time to lie.  “This is a special new drink.  It’s only just been released for this party.”  Another sip, the gears in his brain stuttering for a moment as he found the perfect way to word his deception.  “It doesn’t taste like alcohol, and it won’t give you a hangover in the morning.”

That seemed to work, Yuri’s eyes widening in response as he took a hearty gulp of the stuff.  He grinned in awe, leaning heavily on the table as he mumbled his thanks.  They drank in silence for a moment, each gazing around the room while stealing glances at each other.  There was an energy settling into the quiet, an easy feeling that didn’t require a word from either of them as they humored their own respective thoughts; Victor’s mostly revolved around the curve of Yuri’s back, the brief contact he made with it haunting him now.

“So, your family owns a hot spring?” Victor found himself saying, anything to get his mind on a different subject.  The other brightened at his interest, perpetual blush darkening for just a moment.

“In Hasetsu,” he replied, nodding.

“I’ve always wanted to go to a Japanese hot spring.  What are they like?” Victor rested his chin in his palm as he leaned forward, drawing closer to his conversation partner.  Yuri didn’t seem to mind; he simply smiled as he thought of home.

“They’re great,” he sighed, and Victor couldn’t help the smile that followed the simple bliss of the answer.  “We have outdoor baths, those are nice in the winter.  The cold keeps you from getting too hot.  There’s always steam coming off the water.  Kind of makes it look…” Yuri paused, frowning.  He was searching for a word, finger tapping his cheek as his head rested in his hand.  “...like a… like a dream.”  He shrugged.

“Do you like the winter?” another question from Victor, mostly because he enjoyed watching the expressions that came with every thought the other had, flickering across his face like flames.  Yuri shrugged, brows knitting as he considered his answer.

“I hate shoveling snow,” he admitted.  The Russian laughed at the bluntness of the answer.

“It’s the worst,” Victor agreed.  “That’s why I live in a place where someone does it for me.”

Yuri rolled his eyes, not at the remark, which was admittedly asinine, but more to show his jealousy.  He said, “My family and I are the ‘someones’ who have to do it, at home.”

“So it’s just your family that works there?”

“We have a couple others, but yes,” Yuri nodded, relaxing further into the conversation as he took a few more gulps of water.  He was meeting Victor’s eyes easily now, all hints of apprehension from earlier in the night completely gone.  Victor enjoyed listening to Yuri, whose voice was huskier now, its new texture reminding him of the patterning in wood grain.  It was fun, getting to know someone; Victor was no stranger to it, but for some reason this felt a bit different, a curious pain sneaking into the pit of his stomach as Yuri reacted and thought and replied to him.  Yuri was so honest, the drink removing any insecurities and barriers, putting himself on the same level as Victor--or rather, grounding the gold medalist enough to see him as a person.

“What about your family?”  The voice cut into his thoughts, catching him off-guard. 

Victor shrugged, smiling sheepishly as he replied, “They live in Saint Petersburg with me.  Well, not  _ with  _ me.  You know.”  

The other skater nodded, pressing further as he said, “Do they take care of Makkachin while you’re away?”  Yuri’s face shifted into embarrassment as he realized that he’d revealed a better understanding of Victor’s personal life than he should have.  The Russian chuckled, the flattery fluttering in his chest and staining his cheeks for a moment.

“Sometimes, when I’m away for more than a couple days,” he replied, but was eager to get off the topic of himself; aside from the fact that his family was not his favorite subject, Victor much preferred watching Yuri’s face as he spoke, though the look he currently had was also ridiculously endearing.  Each bit of information Victor volunteered in response was met with wide, welcoming eyes, as though Yuri were being entrusted with priceless gems.  Its earnestness made Victor feel like he were sharing secrets instead of making small talk, Yuri’s reverent attention adding an intimate atmosphere to their exchanges.  “What about you?  Do you have any pets?”

Fat tears gathered in Yuri’s eyes more suddenly than the Russian thought possible.   _ That  _ was certainly the wrong choice of topic, the booze mixing poorly with whatever memories the question had brought with it.  Getting to his feet, Victor felt himself panic, eyes searching the room for answers as he attempted to comfort his drunk acquaintance as best he could.

“O-Okay!  Let’s not worry about pets!”  Victor’s eyes fell on the half-empty glass on the table, and he snatched it up to bring it to the other’s lips.  “Here, drink.”  

The drink was accepted and finished quickly.  After he had completed his task, Yuri put the cup back down on the table with a little too much force, his eyes wide and bright as he became more aware of his surroundings.

“Enough talk,” he said with an amusing amount of conviction, his emotional state fluxing back in the opposite direction.  Brown eyes flicked to meet Victor’s, the man unable to resist the gravity in the gaze, his body floating in close proximity to the other as strong arms wrapped themselves around him.  Yuri was close again, uttering the phrase “Dance battle” before sweeping the other in the direction of the music.

They separated for a moment, Victor getting his bearings again now that his personal space was intact; his dance partner seemed unbothered by the fact that he was alone, too wrapped up in the song to notice much of anything else.  People had begun to stare again, and the gold medalist scanned the crowd, pushing aside any thoughts of self-consciousness as he rhythmically approached the Japanese skater, who accepted him with open arms.  If Victor looked foolish, so be it, but they would look foolish together.

The people around them disappeared as they started to interact, the idea of a “battle” between them quickly dissipating into laughter as Yuri took the lead, sweeping Victor into his arms, leaving the medalist entirely at his mercy.  It was easy to follow the dark-haired skater’s lead and Victor did so eagerly, the warmth in Yuri’s body pressing through the Russian’s clothes as he spun Victor around and placed himself behind the blond.  Wrapping his arm firmly around Victor’s waist, Yuri held him in place as the skater leaned and rested the brunt of their weight on a bent knee.  It leaned against the Russian’s left thigh, Victor feeling the muscles humming in excitement while they were so actively engaged.  A chill trickled up the back of Victor’s skull as he felt Yuri’s nose ghost along the length of his neck, his face eventually resting beside the gold medalist’s. Victor’s eyelashes brushed against the other man’s cheek, fat from the grin plastered on his face.

It was impossible not to smile in kind after feeling one so intimately, and even harder to keep himself from beaming as he was lost in a whirlwind of firm grasps and touches.  His heart sang, the notes changing as Yuri’s fingers traveled the length of his body.

The spell was broken when Victor felt himself being dipped without warning, opening his eyes in alarm before laughing in spite of himself, the other joining in.  As fear flickered in his chest, Victor kicked his leg up in the air with a flourish, gently pressing his fingers into the damp fabric on Yuri’s back.  It was the first time he had gone out of his way to touch Yuri, the light caress feeling forbidden despite all their other contact.  The other responded, his heavy hand traveling across Victor’s chest before running itself generously through the Russian’s hair, fingers spread wide as they cradled his head.  Yuri was looking at him now, eyes sparkling as he grinned down at the senior skater, and the Russian was unable to look away.  Something bloomed within him, manic warmth spreading through his chest as he relished the feeling of Yuri’s hands against his skin, the sincerity of their grasp difficult to ignore.  There was something in the way Yuri held him that made him feel priceless.  Wanted.  Handsome.  

Time stopped.  Victor took this moment to catch up with his thoughts, examining himself from the outside.  He looked different-- _ felt  _ different.  For the first time, the idea of retiring wasn’t one that scared Victor; in their conversations, in seeing him move, Yuri had somehow changed the meaning of the word, removing any fear that came with it.  There was hope now, excitement bubbling in his veins at the idea of doing something different with someone new.  But it was impossible to ignore the fact that Yuri was the only person that made this consideration feel worthwhile.  Coaching definitely seemed more appealing now, but admittedly, he wanted to do it for selfish reasons.

Victor had come to like Yuri quite a bit in the last few hours, thoroughly charmed by his fearlessness and honesty.  It was hard to ignore that much of this was most likely in thanks to the sheer amount of drinks that he had, but this person was still inside of Yuri, most likely buried under layers of anxiety.  They presented a challenge, a goal to work towards, and Victor found himself looking forward to digging through them, wanting to unearth more of the man that held him in his arms.  And if being with the Japanese skater meant that a hot spring was involved, well…

Time flowed normally again as Victor righted himself, blinking his eyes in a daze as he returned to reality.  He was doing it again, thoughts running so far into the future that they failed to see the consequences scattered at their feet.  Normally there was little risk of tripping on them, but given the sheer amount of variables involved in this scenario, it would be difficult to pull this off without burning a bridge or two.

_ Slow down. _

The reminder was necessary, and Victor thanked himself for it, taking in a slow, deep breath before running his fingers through his fringe.  He glanced at the clock on his phone again--2330.  The party had already begun winding down, and given the fact that Victor was only inches away from agreeing to move to Japan, he thought it best that they call it a night.  After they had located Yuri’s glasses, long discarded on the surface of an abandoned table, they headed back to the elevators, the drunk pressing the button for his floor as the doors closed them in the space together.  Hesitantly, Victor hit the one for his own as well.

Victor counted his breaths as they ascended to keep himself focused on something that didn’t involve hopping on a plane with the other man tomorrow.  His impulsiveness was frequently his greatest enemy, nearly deadly when partnered with disposable income, of which he had plenty.  He was violently ripped from his meditation as he felt skin brush against his palm, Yuri’s pinky hooking onto Victor’s after a brief search.  The blond felt his heartbeat quicken; fearlessness was indeed one of the drunk’s strengths.

Yuri stumbled out of the elevator when it reached his destination, and Victor used his unsteadiness as an excuse to walk the other to his room, their hands casually finding each other on the way.  A pause stretched out as Yuri fumbled for his room key, neither man entirely sure of where to go from here.

“Listen,” The Russian broke the silence, folding his arms over his chest as he leaned on the doorframe.  “About this coaching business--”

“--You’ll do it?” the words leapt out of Yuri’s mouth, his face showing the full scope of his disbelief.  Victor laughed nervously, struggling against the urge to immediately say yes.

“I think we should talk about it again, when we’re sober,” he said with a surprising amount of restraint.  To feel more like himself, he added, “Very soon.”  The shorter man beamed, happy with the answer he received.  Miraculously, he found his key and opened the door, ushering the Russian inside before the door shut behind them.  The  _ click _ resonated deeply between them, both men realizing that they were now alone, their fingers still humming from the all-too-brief contact.

An expectation settled into the air, Victor’s nerves suddenly sparking to life as he tried to think of where this moment should go.  The obvious answer was easy, but felt wrong; neither of them were in their right mind, and the Russian was never a fan of sex in dubious circumstances.  Releasing a long breath through his nose, Victor put his head back on, trying to find a way out of the room before either of them made a mistake. 

“Let me give you my number,” the medalist clamored for an excuse to break the silence, and Yuri blinked at the sudden declaration; he must have felt similarly lost in their predicament.  Reaching for the memo pad on the desk, Victor scribbled down the digits before tearing off the half of the page they were on and handing it to the other skater.  Yuri accepted the offering, tucking it into his back pocket as he took Victor’s outstretched hand in his own and placed a gentle kiss on the second knuckle of his middle finger.  The sensation lingered as Yuri looked up at him through dark lashes, a laugh prompted by his own boldness bubbling out of him.  It was infectious, but so was the contact, and after a quick chuckle Victor closed the distance between them.  The kiss was chaste, the brush of their lips almost non-existent, but the light caress of skin on skin went straight to Victor’s head.  He felt dizzy as he straightened, and from the look on Yuri’s face, the Japanese skater felt the same.  Brown eyes blinked twice in surprise, a small gasp escaping him as he realized what had happened.  It was impossible to tell what the other felt, but Victor couldn’t allow himself to stay a moment longer to find out.  Forcing his hands in his pockets, the Russian gave Yuri a gentle smile before heading out the door.

“Talk to you soon,” Victor quietly promised.  

Enamored by the moment they had shared, the men failed to see that the slip he handed to Yuri was not in his pocket, the drunkard having missed the seam in his stupor and instead dropping it helplessly to the floor.  As he turned to throw himself on the bed, his foot kicked the paper beneath the bed, its faithful documentation lost amongst the dust bunnies.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OH MY GOD THIS IS SO LONG but there was sooo much to get to. I really wanted to focus on the beats of Victor's feelings, how each interaction with Yuri shifts him a little closer to the edge. But there were so many cute little details from the photos I wanted to make sure I touched on as well. I hope my interpretation of the banquet (aka THE GREATEST PART OF THE SHOW, imho) was enjoyable!
> 
> Thank you to those who are reading and have left me a comment or a kudo! I am hoping to have another chapter out in the next week or so; this one took a tiny bit more time since it's about twice as long as any other chapter!


	5. Heartbreak.

5am.

It was a cruel time of day, when even the sun didn’t feel like waking up.  This time of year it preferred to sleep in late and get to bed early to prepare for the longer days in summer.  Victor usually preferred to sleep in no matter what season it was, though obligation frequently got in the way of those plans.  In this case, it was a hangover.

His throat was bone dry, his thirst forcing him into consciousness before a headache greeted him.  The times that he woke up regretting his decision to drink seemed to increase with frequency each year beyond his 25th birthday; it was his body’s cute way of reminding him of his mortality.  Victor thought the occasional flare-up of his old knee injury was enough, but apparently not.

With a groan, Victor looked up from his pillow with puffy, half-open eyes, a sickly twilight settled on the surfaces in the room from the few streetlights that peeked through the curtains.  Blindly, he pushed aside the covers and made his way to the dresser, pulling out one of the bottles of water he had hidden in a drawer before chugging it.  Swallowing was difficult at first, dry pipes rubbing together like sandpaper, but the discomfort was worth it, the lukewarm water kicking him in the gut when it rested there.  The headache dulled, refusing to leave him entirely, and Victor went to the bathroom to wash his face, resting a damp cloth on his eyes to make them easier to open.

As he stood there in the dark, hands resting lightly on the countertop with his head leaned back to keep the towel in its place, a smile made its way to his lips as the memories from the night before woke up in his mind.  The feeling behind the grin moved through him slowly, spreading with each beat of his heart.  His skin, despite being sticky from sweat the night before, felt like it was glowing; his chest felt impossibly full but feather light despite the weight.  Phantom hands danced across him, and Victor could still feel the exaggerated pattern of Yuri’s breathing against his back when the younger man had held him so closely.

The day had yet to start, but Victor knew it was going to be a good one.  His flight home was short, a nice change from the lengthy treks across the world for other competitions; there wasn’t even a need for him to go through customs.  There was a check in his bag, waiting for him to deposit it, and after he did he would treat himself to a nice meal at his favorite Thai restaurant near his apartment.  Makkachin was waiting for him, their reunion only a handful of hours away.  Victor would get to spend the night curled up in his own bed with his best friend.  All of this alone was enough to make him feel like the luckiest man in the world, but there was something else that outshined everything he was looking forward to.

Victor had met someone.

What he felt was not unfamiliar, and yet there were elements that made this situation feel completely foreign.  While not entirely inexperienced when it came to relationships, Victor was also not the playboy many expected him to be; as previously mentioned, he tended to prefer keeping most at an arm’s length, just for the sake of his own sanity and time management.  Were he to enter into a relationship, he would be the one that initiated it (giving a wide berth to fans), and they usually did not end with much success.  After last night, Victor felt _chosen_.  Was this how cat owners felt?  He had heard that word used so many times before, and with Yuri’s hesitation to talk with him earlier in the night, it wasn’t difficult to see the parallels.  Maybe this was why the Russian Yuri seemed so taken with the temperamental things.

After his thoughts came to a boil, the Russian found it difficult to fall back asleep, opting instead to scroll anxiously through social media as he waited for time to catch up with where he wanted it to be.  If Victor acted entirely on his impulses, he’d have rushed to the other’s room to bid him a quick farewell before they went back to their respective homes, but two things kept him from doing so: one, it was still well before a reasonable hour, and two, he could not remember where the hell the other skater’s room was.  Curse his shoddy memory.

The hours passed with a flick of his thumb, and soon he was in the airport, eyes wandering with much more aggression than they would normally, searching the faces that moved to their destinations in the hopes that he would spot a familiar one.  So many new people to meet, and all he could think of was one.

Though it was difficult to stave off the small pang of disappointment as he settled in the plush, first class seat that had been assigned to him, the free champagne that was offered as soon as he did was quite helpful.  Grinning as he took the glass, Victor breathed in the scent of the drink as it fizzed, the tiny flecks of liquid that jumped off its surface tickling his nose.  It made him think of the night before, his lips unable to abandon the smile that rested on them.

By the time they had landed in St. Petersburg, Victor had found Yuri’s few social media accounts and had spent the three hour flight getting to know him through the minimal photos and posts he made public.  Victor was careful to avoid interacting with anything, hoping that the other man wouldn’t be spooked by any sudden interest.  That had ended poorly for the Russian before.

As he walked through the door of his home, Makkachin was eagerly waiting behind it.  Victor was lucky to have enough time to put his bags down before the pooch was on him, legs hooked happily around his waist as she jumped up to lick his face in greeting.  He laughed, wrapping his hands around the base of her ears before giving them a hearty rub, the long, fluffy things flopping back and forth at the touch.

Makkachin spent most of the evening placed firmly in his lap, the leftovers of Victor’s dinner scattered carelessly on the coffee table beside them as they sat on the couch.  The Russian was back on his phone now, learning about Hasetsu, where it was, how much it cost to get there, what hot spring resorts were in town.  It turned out there was only one left, and as Victor scanned the website he spotted Yuri in the background of one of the photos.  He looked much more demure, his hair still scruffy and teasing his forehead. The wide brown eyes possessed none of the boldness they had the night before but his cheeks were painted a familiar pink, and Victor remembered how deep that blush could get.  It was his favorite part of Yuri, he decided.

Victor rested his phone on Makkachin’s back as he clicked off the screen, looking through the wall ahead of him as his thoughts began to roll again.  This was crazy, right?    


*   *   *  


“This is stupid.” Yakov’s no-nonsense gravel cut him off mid-explanation.  It was a week later, and Victor had decided to sit his coach down in his office and follow up on their conversation about his future.  “Some kid gets drunk, asks you to be his coach and now you want to go play house in Japan?”

The frustrated smile pulled at Victor’s lips again, the only thing reminding him to remain affable as the older man mocked him.

“I just don’t feel like I have much more left to give here,” he said, attempting to sound reasonable.

“You’re too young to have a mid-life crisis,” his coach growled, hands going for his eyes as he rubbed them with a heavy sigh.  “Have you even had a chance to discuss the specifics?  Doesn’t this kid live in Detroit?”

Did he?  Shit.  Victor didn’t know that.  Only Yuri’s Touchbook had listed his location, and it had said Hasetsu.  Heat pressed into Victor’s face.

“He said we’d worry about it after the season,” the truth twisted its way out of Victor’s mouth, only a little bent when it emerged.

“When was the last time you spoke about it?”

“...At the banquet,” Victor admitted, eyes traveling to the surface of the desk between them.  A loud creak scratched the air as Yakov sat back in his chair, arms folding across his chest.

“Vitya, you can’t keep doing this,” he was quieter now, and suddenly Victor felt very young, arms pressing into his sides as he clutched his knees with his hands.  “You’ve met men before.  You’ve gallivanted off before.  Do you know what sort of damage this will do to your career?”

The words stung.  Earlier, Victor had felt sure in his decision, his heart leaping into his throat when he saw an article about the Japanese Nationals next week that featured an image of Yuri from the Grand Prix Final in the preview.  Yakov’s words smudged the photo in his mind’s eye, riddling the Japanese skater with faults that Victor had yet to discover by comparing him to other relationships that had gone sour.  The medalist knew that this time was different; there was something in the time they had spent together that was beyond explanation, something that could only be felt.  Victor had spent the last two weeks pondering the validity of the meaning of his life and work, and with his request, Yuri had answered many of those questions.  The timing was difficult to ignore.  It felt... like fate.  

His mind was getting ahead of him again.

With a sigh, Victor replied, “Let’s be frank: how many years do I have left before you’ll ‘allow’ me to retire?”

“Competitively?  Four or five.”  Victor frowned, the amount of time feeling far too generous.

“Okay.  Then what?”

Now it was Yakov’s turn to frown.

“That’s up to you,” he replied, though offered no options in the pause that followed.  Victor was used to Yakov identifying problems and giving him what he needed to solve it.  The lack of answers hurt, the apparent absence putting a sizable hole in their relationship to match the one in Victor’s heart.

“If it’s up to me, then I don’t see the problem taking a year off,” Victor was smiling again now, though his voice was beginning to betray his frustration.  Frown deepening, Yakov picked up on the change quickly, growling deep in his throat as he wordlessly admitted defeat.

“You can do whatever the hell you want,” he muttered, not as a blessing but as a statement of fact.  “But take more time to think about it.”  The chair creaked again as he stood, the wheels rattling against the floor as they rolled backwards.  “And for god’s sake, talk to him about it when he’s sober before you throw your life away.”

As his eyes traveled downward, Victor felt the blush creep across his nose.  Thankfully, Yakov was well into the process of leaving and didn’t get the opportunity to see it.  What his coach had to say wasn’t without merit, as much as he wanted to completely ignore the advice.  It was wrong of him to assume that Yuri was too drunk to be intimate and yet sober enough to make a big decision.  No one should be held _that_ accountable for themselves while under the influence.  But regardless of that, it was impossible to deny that Yuri cared about Victor, regardless of his sobriety.  

Victor stepped out of the office, heart heavier but still hopeful.  When it came down to it, Yakov’s approval was completely irrelevant, but there was yet another person waiting outside who wanted to make their opinion known.  Lucky Victor.

“Are you _still_ thinking about being that loser’s coach?”

The other, Russian Yuri stood at his right, the plastic guards on his skates rattling dully against the concrete as he took a few steps toward the senior.  Victor noted the differentiation in his mind and wondered when Plisetsky, the skater he had spent several years working alongside, had become the _other_ Yuri.  Oops.

“Don’t forget, you lost to that loser,” Victor responded in kind, the playful jest possessing a hint of malice.  He wasn’t in the mood to be grumped at by two angry men at opposing ends of the age spectrum.  His words hit their mark, Yuri clucking his tongue in distaste at the memories that came with them.

“Too bad the judges didn’t give a shit,” he huffed, folding his arms as he leaned heavily on his left leg, right toes pulling to the sky as he balanced the foot on the back corner of the blade.  The smile was still plastered on Victor’s face, small and forced; instead of engaging, he simply left, tucking his hands into his pockets as he turned to leave the rink.  No need in continuing to humor the kitten--there was no benefit to getting scratched.

To be honest, Victor wasn’t sure why he felt particularly prickly on the subject of Yuri Katsuki; he wasn’t feeling insecure about the fact that he hadn’t heard anything from the skater.  Only 8 days had passed since the banquet and Yuri was participating in the Japanese Nationals next week, so he was most likely spending any free time on the ice.  They’d have an opportunity to talk about it when they saw each other at the World Championships.

The week came and went, and Victor’s heart sank when he watched Yuri crumble at the Nationals, all quads completely botched or reduced, combination jumps lost to the nerves that held him rigid throughout the course of his routine.  He looked much worse after the Grand Prix Finals, his movement so inconsistent that Victor couldn’t help but wonder if he had hurt himself recently and not given the injury enough time to heal.  A shame, if so.  Rest was just as much a part of their work as everything else.

As time continued to march forward, people at the rink kept asking Victor about Yuri, if he’d heard anything.  Victor didn’t understand why they cared or how they knew, and he started to worry about whether or not they were inquiring so they could mock him about the idea when it inevitably fell flat on its face.  It was frustrating--he hadn’t spoken about this to anyone aside from Tweedle-Grump and Tweedle-Grumpier, and yet somehow, everyone knew.  He hardly ever talked about certain aspects of his life, and a topic like this--a crush, a huge life change he was still pondering the specifics of--was not something he would normally bring up to anyone, as he liked to keep developing parts of his personal life private until he had the time to emotionally process them.  It made him feel… strange.  Intruded upon.  Alienated.  The emotions felt uncomfortable and unfamiliar.  In most cases, his cheerful disposition and chattiness were enough to help him make friends wherever he went, and if they didn’t, there were plenty of other people he could meet that gave him the opportunity to try again.  But these people weren’t ones he could move on from--they were his peers, his acquaintances, the people that would most closely resemble a group of friends to him.  Conversations were difficult, his mind racing with questions anytime he took the time to interact with the others; were they talking about him behind his back?  Did they think his idea of taking a break was stupid?  What if they were only pretending to care?  What if they wanted him to retire so he could be out of the way?

His snowballing thoughts worked against him again, driving him away from Yakov and the others.  Dinners were declined, shopping trips skipped out on, requests for advice rejected.  Victor would practice and leave, eating alone in his apartment before curling up in his bed to watch videos on his phone.  The world shrank to the size of his bedroom.

It was the end of January and Victor found himself at the European nationals.  He was accepting his medal, grinning at the crowd as he held the gold gently between a thumb and forefinger.  It had been 6 weeks since the banquet, and 4 since Yuri’s loss.  Victor was worried, each day that brought him closer to the World Championships darkening the skin beneath his eyes, which he carefully concealed with makeup.  A change in his appearance would only lead to more questions he didn’t want to answer from people that he wasn’t sure he could trust.  Tonight, he wore it to make his features easier to see on camera.

A hand on his shoulder pulled Victor into reality, Chris standing behind the touch as the two stepped off of the ice following the victory ceremony.  The Russian must have looked off, because Chris’ expression changed, his question shifting to a statement.

“We’re getting dinner.”  

Victor smiled, appreciating the opportunity to stop thinking.

The hour and Victor’s uncharacteristically anti-social inclinations led them back to the hotel, ordering a generous spread of room service to celebrate their now-traditional gold and silver placements.  Chris was flat on his stomach, shoveling round pasta noodles into his mouth as he talked.

“My cat loves to guilt me before I leave,” He said between bites, reaching a long, lean arm toward the nightstand to grab the glass of water he had placed there.  “As soon as I start packing, anytime I turn my back she gets inside of my bag.  When I put them by the door so I don’t forget anything, she sleeps on top of them.”  The Swiss chuckled to himself, taking another bite.  “I swear, one day I’m going to arrive at an event and she’ll be hiding under my shirts or something.”

“That’s cute,” Victor smiled, not being much of a cat person himself but enjoying pet stories nonetheless.  His spoon scraped along the sides of his bowl, the goulash within it largely untouched.  Not because it wasn’t good--the menu had bragged that it was a delicious staple of Croatian diets, and it hadn’t lied.  Despite the grueling competition, he just… wasn’t hungry.  Victor realized he was quiet, and so forced himself to continue the conversation.  “Makkachin never seems to catch on.  She’s always just as surprised whenever I leave and come back.”  He paused, thinking of the way she would jump excitedly when he walked through the door, all sadness from the week alone with a sitter completely washed away from the sight of his face.  “If only our lives were that simple.”

Pushing himself into a seated position, Chris shrugged, placing his bowl in the center of his folded legs.  

“Where’s the fun in sleeping all day?”  Victor stared at Chris for a moment, unsure if he was being serious.  The silver medalist laughed.  “Point taken, I guess.  I don’t know.  I just love my balls too much to want to be a pet.”

The Russian choked on air, the bluntness of the phrase knocking the wind out of his lungs.  A laugh escaped him, hearty and full, tears prickling the corners of his eyes as he calmed down.  It was impossible for Chris to conceal the pride he felt at the response to his terrible joke, a smug grin plastered on his face, long lashes hanging heavily over half-lidded eyes.

“I can’t argue with that,” Victor responded when he could, unable to stop the last few giggles.  For a moment, he felt like himself, the fog in his mind clearing.  He glanced down at his stew, hunger finally percolating in his gut, and he took a few bites.  Moments passed with no words, the two working on their respective meals.

“So, is everything okay?” The Swiss broke the silence, his voice casual but the timing of the inquiry implying a deeper prod.  At home, people had started to ask fewer questions now that he spoke to them less, but the discomfort when he was around others was always there, his inability to express himself slowly choking him.

Out of habit, the Russian played dumb, eyes traveling to his stew as he replied, “What do you mean?”

“You seem… different.  Off.  Don’t think I didn’t see that over-rotation tonight.”  The sharpness of Chris’ observation sliced a shallow cut into Victor’s facade.

“I don’t think anyone missed that,” the gold medalist replied, smirking through the bitterness at the error.  It had cost him little, his score still placed on its comfortable pedestal above the others.  “But really, it’s fine.  I just had an off night.”

Shaking his head as he rested his fork on the rim of the bowl, Chris continued to insist.  “Victor Nikiforov doesn’t make mistakes.  What’s going on?”

A small amount of air escaped Victor’s open mouth as he attempted to continue dissuading this line of questioning, but he didn’t have the energy for another lie.  Instead, he brought his lips together, a shake of his head partnered with a helpless shrug.  This wasn’t something he was interested in discussing, and it was clear that pretending wasn’t going to work.

“Is it what we talked about before?  Retiring?”

Thankfully, Victor had enough self-control to keep his face neutral, though at this point, since all he had to do was respond with a yes or no, he was tempted to humor the other with an answer.  While he considered Chris a friend, it would be easier to avoid him than anyone in Russia. There seemed to be little risk in responding.  Victor was already most likely a laughingstock at home, so what was one more person?

With hesitation, the Russian nodded, though offered no further information beyond the gesture.  After a moment of expectant silence, Victor added, “It’s not something I really want to talk about.”

Chris’ eyes searched Victor’s face, the man obviously debating whether or not he wanted to press the subject.  Being watched this closely made him feel vulnerable, the Swiss’ unlikely perceptiveness now the greatest enemy to his secrecy.  After a few unbearable moments, Chris dropped his gaze to his bowl again, taking a few more bites before moving the conversation on to something else.

“So, now that we’re only a few weeks away from the Worlds, who do you think we’ll see there?”

Good.  Work talk.  Work talk that didn’t revolve around him.  Victor could do this.

“Aside from us,” Victor got the obvious out of the way.  “I’m not sure.  Though I’m hoping we don’t have to see that JJ guy again.”

“Not a fan, huh?” Chris smirked, his tone implying that he wasn’t either.  “I wouldn’t be surprised if we saw Mickey again, from the Grand Prix final, you remember?”  Victor did not, but nodded anyway.  The Swiss pinched his own chin, eyes traveling upwards in thought.  “I’ve heard a lot of buzz about a new skater from Kazakhstan, though I haven’t seen his routines.  Ah!”  The exclamation was short, fingers snapping as he tried to recall someone else.  “What about…  That guy from the banquet.  The one we danced with.  Yuri!  Was that his name?”

“He definitely won’t be there,” Victor remarked as he put another spoonful of goulash in his mouth, freezing mid-bite.  Chris did not miss the information that this admission gave him, Victor’s guard having lowered itself at the change of subject.

“I thought you said you weren’t sure?” came the cheeky response.  

“The rankings popped up on my Touchbook feed,” Victor explained as casually as he could, lies skirting around the edges of the statement.  “He didn’t do well.”

“That’s a shame,” the silver medalist moved his bowl to the side, stretching his legs out along the width of the bed.  His heels nearly dangled over the edge, and Victor’s eyes lingered a little too long on the other’s knees, perfectly intact and symmetrical.  It seemed, especially in colder months, that Victor’s right one was always a bit more swollen than the left.  “I’m sure you were probably looking forward to seeing him.”

The Russian gave his friend a puzzled look, his crush obvious to those at home but not so much outside of that circle.  Cautiously, he asked, “What makes you say that?”

“I was there, remember?” replied Chris, giving the other a gentle smile.  “I saw him ask to be your coach.  I saw your face when you two were together.  I don’t think I’ve ever seen you that happy.  Well, you’re usually happy, but… you were different that night.”  Blinking, Victor couldn’t hide his surprise, unused to understanding when it came to this particular situation.  “I assumed that the two of you stayed in touch afterwards, but I’m going to guess that didn’t happen.”

“He… hasn’t called.” The admission hurt, the three words pricking him three times.  Now that the truth was out in the open, more information followed, sneaking through the crack in the door that Chris had opened.  “I thought he might have been waiting until things calmed down, but… I don’t know.  Six weeks?  We don’t have much time to discuss programs if we’re spending all of our prep time figuring out the coaching situation once the season is over.”

“Then forget about it,” Chris waved a hand in the air dismissively.  “Use this energy to start working on stuff for next year.  If he calls, you can give the program to him.  If he doesn’t…” The words trailed off, the painful possibility becoming a little too real in the quiet.  He shrugged, bringing them back to the present.  “Fuck him.”

A smile found it’s way to Victor’s mouth; he felt a bit like a teenager again, having hushed discussions at sleepovers about people he liked.  For the first time in a while, Victor felt a little more like himself, taking a moment to appreciate the way his mind felt now that it wasn’t riddled with emotion; there was no way of knowing how long it would last.  He wasn’t expecting this from Chris, but he desperately wanted it, the small amount of sympathy and support a nice break from his now-normal paranoia.

They spent a couple more hours in each other’s company, Victor resting his head on Chris’ shoulder as they silently watched what little TV was on at this hour.  It was comfortable.  Quiet.  Needed.  After the Swiss left for his own room, Victor fell asleep quickly, nearly forgetting to set his alarm for an early flight back to St. Petersburg the next morning.  


*   *   *

 

He felt arms around him, and Victor’s toes drifted apart to face opposing sides of the rink as he swung himself into a spread eagle close to the barrier before launching into a jump. His head spun as he remembered being dipped, his field of vision filled with a smiling, blushing face.  He landed the axel poorly, the extra half rotation catching him off guard this time as his ankle shuddered under the weight of his contact with the ground, though his other leg remained defiantly in the air.

“ _Focus, Vitya!_ ” the bark from the stands came immediately, Victor closing his eyes to keep himself from throwing out an expression he would regret.

“Let’s be fair,” Mila’s voice flickered gold across the backs of his eyelids.  “It’s a new routine!  Maybe he meant to do it that way.”

“Jumps are jumps are jumps,” Yakov responded angrily, voice echoing in the empty space, impossible to ignore.  Thankfully, this particular hour had found the rink relatively barren, the three of them the only ones in the space.  Victor had started choosing this time to skate since he knew fewer people were around, making them easier to avoid.  But Yakov was a constant, his growls punctuating each movement that wasn’t up to his standards.

“Why don’t we let the guy figure out what he’s doing before we correct him?” the redhead shot back; the coach’s phone rang before he could reply, and he answered it, quickly stepping away before getting sucked into an argument with the woman.  She rested her hands on her hips, pleased that she had won their exchange on a technicality.

Mila had been particularly interested in Victor lately, becoming more of a constant at his regular practice times, though she was usually too wrapped up in her own routines to pay much attention of what was happening outside of them.  Today, however, she had chosen to watch, leaning on the barrier as she scrolled through social media on her phone.

It had been weeks since his evening with Chris, and Victor had decided to take his advice, launching into an idea for a new routine that didn’t hit as close to home as his current one did.  This one was more sexual, a theme he mostly avoided because it bored him now that he was an adult and referred to by some as the world’s most eligible bachelor.  But if Yakov was fine ditching the surprises and cashing his checks, Victor would be, too.  At least until he figured something else out.

Still, despite his best efforts it hadn’t allowed him to step away from the thoughts that many had taken upon themselves to deem foolish. That was mostly because the story behind the short program was inspired by the night that now haunted him every time he dared to check his phone for missed messages or calls.  It was a nervous tick that was much less present now that nearly four months had passed.

Victor was skating again, mind wandering as his arms sliced through the air, unable to forget Yuri Katsuki’s lips on his knuckles, or the rush of hot air that brushed against the skin of his fingers as he giggled.  That moment had felt so real.  Had Victor really been wrong?

His speed leading into the Salchow wasn’t enough, legs still a bit too close from the poor extension he did on his way into the jump.  Though there were barely enough rotations, he still crumpled to the ground, taking extra care to roll into the fall instead of bracing with his hands.  Stopping the tumble on his back, Victor threw his arms out wide at his sides as he gazed up at the ceiling.  

Frustration welled up in his chest, and Victor heaved a heavy sigh, exhaling in an attempt to rid himself of the emotion.  He didn’t cry.  Victor never cried.  But Victor never fell, either.  The ache in his hip where he had landed was like an old friend he never wanted to see again.

Maybe it was time to move on.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> God help me if Chris is an asshole in the second season, because I can't help but love him. 
> 
> I hope you enjoyed! I wasn't expecting this to be so sad, but I hope I showed his thought processes for those emotions well enough. Thank you for the kudos and comments, as always! I'm hoping to have another chapter out in the next 7-10 days, but in addition to normal work I have a few convention appearances coming up, as well as a gift I have to work on for my husband. I'll endeavor to have another one out as soon as I can!


	6. Final Lament

_ Thwap! _

Victor’s racket connected with the plastic ball easily before it slapped the standing side of the table across from him, rocketing back with more quickness than he had prepared for.  It shot past his rather confident swing with little difficulty, rolling to the center of the room as if to mock him.  With a sigh, he went to retrieve it, bending over to pick it up and spotting Mila in the doorway as he righted himself.  Her presence nearly sent him out of his skin, the music he had been playing on his phone covering any noise she made as she entered.  Victor smiled weakly in greeting, not particularly feeling up to conversation but unable to bring himself to be rude enough to ignore her.

“Hey,” he said quietly, going back to his game before adding,  “Didn’t hear you come in.”  Smiling, Mila flicked her wrist at him to dismiss the apology.

“Don’t mind me.  I was just a bit bored so I thought I’d explore.”

After a quick nod, Victor turned back to his game--if one could call sucking at ping pong such a thing.  It was the end of March, and the two of them had found themselves in Tokyo for the World Championships, both finalists for their respective gender categories.  They had performed their Short Programs today, Mila taking first while Victor trailed behind a particularly zealous Czech contestant who had overloaded his programs with quads.  The Russian didn’t feel particularly threatened--he had seen fatigue begin to set into the younger contestant before the end of his routine, so the likelihood of him making it through his Free Skate without exhaustion-based errors was low.

Victor had already tried and failed to go to bed, giving up after an hour of tossing and turning to see what the hotel had to offer.  Japan was 6 hours ahead of home, so while the clock said it was midnight, he was wide awake, the time change just small enough to make adjusting difficult.  All contestants had been put on the Club level of the hotel, which offered certain amenities that other guests couldn’t take advantage of.  One such perk was a large rec room, proudly displaying itself behind a glass wall directly across from the elevators in an attempt to impress VIP guests immediately upon their entry to the closed-access floor.  In addition to the table tennis that Victor was currently taking advantage of, there was also a single basketball hoop, a billiards table, two massage chairs, and a TV coupled with a couch and coffee table, the last decorated with a random assortment of Japanese and American board games.  Victor had never played ping pong and could never claim an interest in trying, but boredom got the better of him.  The wooden floors in the mostly empty space exaggerated every sound the ball made, the thin, percussive noises that poked the air as it bounced away resembling mocking laughter.  Frustration would soon shoo him away from his new, half-assed hobby, most likely back to the comfort of his room. 

Two months had passed since he had made the decision to put Yuri out of his mind, and his resolution had been mostly successful.  Victor had still yet to hear anything from the boy, but that fact didn’t hurt him as much as it had before, though it still summoned a dull pain if he lingered on the thought for too long.  When his advancement to the World Championships was finalized, it was hard not to get excited at the prospect of seeing the Japanese skater--Victor would be in Japan, after all.  However, a quick google search let him know that Tokyo was more than 12 hours away from Hasetsu.  While many of Victor’s rinkmates would frequently travel to support each other, especially at the end of the season, he spared his heart the torture of imagining that Yuri would do the same.  They were still strangers, for all intents and purposes.  Thankfully(?), he had been correct.  The bespectacled man was nowhere to be seen. 

Sighing, Victor tossed the ping pong ball up in the air again, hitting it more gently than he had in previous attempts.  It bounced back, giving him enough time to prepare for his next move--his racket connected, the first instance where an effort to hit it after the initial serve ended in success.  He grinned, so tickled with the fact that he managed to do it that his thoughts of the dark-haired skater subsided momentarily.

“So is there a reason why Yakov has been such a dick to you lately, or…?” 

Mila’s question was so blunt that his miniscule streak was destroyed, the plastic ball bouncing off the table and hitting the ground as he looked at her, puzzled.  

“More than normal?” He clarified, and Mila hummed a quiet laugh as she sat on the couch, looking through the games scattered on the surface of the coffee table.

“Seriously, though,” she continued beyond his attempt at deflection.  Resting the racket on the table, Victor placed his hands on its surface as he leaned on it, left foot hooking over his right ankle.  “He seems to be attacking you for breathing lately.  I know it’s probably not very appropriate for me to stick my nose into whatever’s going on between you two… but you haven’t really seemed like yourself lately.  I just wanted to make sure everything was okay.”

It was hard to hide the dubious look on his face as he stared at her, Mila turning to glance back at him now that she had said what she wanted to.  His brain was stuck in a jetlagged twilight, too wired to sleep but still exhausted; the alterations to his body clock made his brain stutter, his emotions more difficult to hide.  Victor wasn’t  _ as  _ gloomy about Yuri, the evening no longer having as much control over him as it had before, but his sadness had evolved into something else--frustration.  The Russian had much more experience dealing with this feeling in his line of work, which made it easier to discuss.

“Do you really not know?  I thought everyone was talking about it.”  Paranoia might have shown itself in the phrase, but he didn’t particularly care at the moment.  His cheeks felt heavy, lips settling into a frown.

“Wait, is this about that Japanese skater?” Mila asked with a scowl of her own, and Victor prepared himself for the myriad of situations that could follow the question--most of them ending with him feeling like a flaky idiot.

“Yes.”

“Yakov’s mad at you because you want to coach that guy?” she clarified.  The gold medalist shrugged, folding his arms across his chest to make himself feel smaller.  Maybe he could find a way to disappear instead of launching into this conversation for the millionth time, despite his attempts to keep it to himself.

Instead of the mocking or chiding that usually came with the instigation of this topic, Mila shook her head, lips pressing into a thin line as she said, “I can’t believe him.”

_ Him? _  She couldn’t believe  _ him? _  Yakov was the one in the wrong to her?  This was new.

“You don’t think it’s a bad idea?”

“It doesn’t matter if it’s a good idea or a bad idea, it’s something you want to do, isn’t it?”

A hand waved itself in the air, shooing away thoughts of Yuri as Victor went to correct her.

“Well, it  _ was _ .  I don’t think it’s happening.”

“What a dick,” she huffed, getting to her feet and crossing to Victor; annoyance showed itself clearly in her features, brows meeting in the middle as she rested a hand on her hip.  “I don’t see how it’s any of his business to tell you whether or not you should do something unless you ask for his opinion.  And it’s  _ especially  _ bad that he won’t let it go.  I swear, I know he means well, but this isn’t cool.”

A few stunned blinks were all Victor could manage in response; Mila had not been one of the many who were more aggressive in asking him about his future with Yuri, but she  _ had _ inquired previously.  His internal monologue had lead him to believe that anyone who showed an interest must have agreed with Yakov.  He was their common authority figure, after all, and his opinion was one that everyone respected.  As he unfolded his arms, Victor felt the roughness of his exterior soften, defense mechanisms no longer at the ready.

“That’s… kind of you to say.”  It was all he could get out, his mind still catching up with their conversation.  Mila brought her eyes to his.

“Have people been riding you about this the whole time?” She asked.  

“There have been a lot of questions,” he responded carefully, not wanting to get anyone in trouble.  While Mila looked the part of an ice skater when she needed to, she could more accurately be described as a tomboy.  Dialogs with her tended to move in a straight line, similar to the way Plisetsky approached human interaction but with a smaller handful of profanities and the tiniest additional fraction of tact.  Mila was also no stranger to scuffles, her friendly teasing tending towards physical jabs that were frequently misinterpreted or returned.

“Damn,” she breathed, looking down at the ground for a moment.  The anger drained from her face as she shrugged.  “I wish I had known, I would have talked with them about it or something.”  Scowling, Mila’s face darkened as her thoughts continued to roll.  “Fuck, that makes me so mad.  No wonder you’ve been so weird lately.”

So much for hiding it, he thought.  But she was right--it was difficult to move on when everyone kept reminding you of a decision they didn’t agree with.  Victor tried to find words to reciprocate, but they got caught behind a lump that appeared in his throat.  It wasn’t because the wound known as Yuri Katsuki was sore--which it was--it was because it hadn’t felt like anyone had cared about  _ him,  _ or what Yuri’s silent rejection had done to him.  They were more eager to revel in his mistakes.  But that was common for competitors, wasn’t it?

“Forget about those idiots,” Mila continued, graciously allowing him to stay silent.  “I’m not saying Yakov’s said whatever he’s said because wants to keep his golden goose, but you’re a pretty easy paycheck for him.  Everyone else is just a bunch of gossip hounds.  I feel like they just wait around for people to mess up so they can talk about what they would have done instead.”  She smiled bitterly, memories flickering behind her eyes.  “You should hear what they’ve said about  _ my _ boyfriends.”

The word ‘boyfriend’ brought with it a small twist in Victor’s chest, the kiss tingling on his lips for a brief moment.  He wouldn’t dare allow this conversation to give him hope that Yuri would call, but it made him dread going home just a little less.  A smile made its way to his face, weakly resting there as he put a hand on Mila’s shoulder.

“Thank you,” he said, and she grinned before pulling him into a hug.  The closeness felt foreign--Victor was definitely a hugger, but the last few months had made him feel like a stranger in his own skin, the contact as unfamiliar as the thoughts he had kept to himself since December.  In that moment, he realized 3 months had passed, the memories of that time limited only to work and his bed, the competitions difficult to remember behind the haze of anxiety and depression.  

... _ Was  _ he depressed?  The idea was hard to swallow.  He’d never experienced it before, and so didn’t know how to recognize it.  While Victor couldn’t deny that he hadn’t been himself for quite a while, he didn’t want to think of himself as being that way.  Mostly because he didn’t know how to get himself out of it.

“Let me know if you need me to beat anyone up,” Mila murmured into Victor’s ear, pulling him out of his thoughts.  With two hearty pats on the back, she stepped away, red lips still wearing a smile.  Victor returned it more easily this time, feeling lighter now that he knew there was someone in his corner.

“Absolutely.”

  
  


*   *   *

 

Victor hadn’t liked himself much recently.  Sadness followed him, a tiny raincloud that hovered overhead and left him soaked, weighted, unfamiliar.  In the time he had felt this way, Victor assumed it was disappointment that would pass once he gave up the idea of working with the Japanese skater.  But it was difficult to ignore the change in his thought processes, how meeting and talking with people--something he adored--left him feeling drained.  Now, thanks to Mila, Victor had a name for the emotion he hadn’t realized was plaguing him, which meant he could try and fight against it.

Still, even with this revelation, he struggled to combat the lethargy that lingered.  The next evening approached him slowly, time dragging its feet until he found himself beside the barrier waiting for his turn to arrive.  It was his final Free Skate of the season, and while he was already working on new material, Victor liked to spend the World Championships bidding his routines a proper goodbye.  There was a small part of him, however, that realized that this was the last deadline Victor had set in his mind for Yuri to get in touch.  If the next few days came and went without a phone call, he would officially have to figure out what to do from here on his own.  It wasn’t just his routine that needed a farewell.

It was time.  Victor left Yakov at the gate without a word, waving at the audience and beckoning for their applause as he made his way to the center of the ice.  The familiar hush settled over the crowd, Victor’s breathing feeling like a roar in the quiet.  As the orchestra played his opening chords over the speaker, the Russian’s eyes traveled upward, Yuri’s face burning in his mind’s eye.

_ Are you watching? _ He thought to himself, allowing the desperate phrase only because no one else could hear it.  He was in the air now, three spins behind him as he reversed his direction and reached an arm toward the ceiling, hands painting the words they had exchanged into the air as he continued. 

_ What did I do? _  Another jump, it didn’t matter which one, the choreography so ingrained that it required little conscious thought.  “Be my coach!” rang in his ears as he continued backwards, glancing over his shoulder before launching into an axel.  The request had been propelled by alcohol, seemingly out of nowhere.  Maybe he just didn’t think Victor would take him up on it.  

_ Do you miss me, too?   _ It felt wrong to ask, mostly because they had only really spoken in a single evening, but he couldn’t deny that he felt it all the same.  The trajectory of his life had been altered that night, and now Victor had to pick up the pieces and force it back.  Maybe that was his own fault.

_ Why did you ask? _  He was spinning now, thoughts moving along with him just as quickly.  Had Yuri even been serious?  He had a coach.  Was it a joke?  It hadn’t seemed that way.  Victor’s legs scissored and weaved as they dodged the answers that he didn’t want to hear.

For a moment, Victor stopped, the tenor continuing his soulful lament as he pushed himself forward, right toes scuffing against the ice as he swirled into a spread eagle on his inside edge.  His head spun.  It had been spinning.  His hand traced a curving line down the back of his skull to his neck, resting on his collarbone before it woefully slid to his side.  Victor remembered practicing this only a few nights before they met, the feeling of purposelessness nipping at his joints, sore from the cold and the extra work.

The medalist stopped his thoughts long enough to execute a jump combination, mind racing again as he hit the ground.  Chris had been the one to suggest coaching, the idea unrealistic at the time.  Teaching had never been something Victor had considered, but once it became an option, he caught himself watching others’ performances more to see what mistakes they would make and how he would address them.  Unspoken commentary on Yuri’s work had been playing on loop in his head; his was what inspired the shift in how the Russian saw performances since.

He was on the move now, arms gliding through the air with a grace and control that made him look as though he were underwater.  The step sequence was difficult, the winding loops propelled forward with kicks.  When Victor had choreographed it, he imagined it being the whirlwind of emotions the Noble had to face when understanding that he had been left behind.  It was comforting to know his interpretation was accurate as he struggled with his own attempt at moving on.

Two toe loops, one quadruple and the other triple.  He was remembering the names consciously, coming out of his haze as he neared the end of his program.  A final combination spin sent him reeling as he disappeared into that night one final time, his hands finding their way to his upper arms as he pointed his elbows to the ceiling in his ending pose.  The fabric of his costume was damp with sweat, the similar feeling of Yuri’s shirt beneath Victor’s tentative touch still fresh in his mind.  It was odd, finding out what things he remembered better than others; he hoped that soon he wouldn’t recall any of it.  Victor longed for perspective he didn’t have yet.

His chest heaved a few more times before he breathed in slowly through his nose in an attempt to calm his heartbeat from the exercise.  Smiling as best he could, he waved a farewell to his audience and routine, stepping off the ice one final time as he felt his bones go hollow and brittle.

This would pass.

  
  


*   *   *

 

The cheers were deafening as Victor held his medal up, flashing a smile as he stood in the center of three of the world’s greatest skaters.  Chris was at his traditional spot to the Russian’s right; the skater from Kazakhstan--Otabek, if he remembered rightly--stood at his left.  The ceremony was the fifth consecutive one where he would be honored as the best of the best.  Men, women and children were on their feet, surrounding them on all sides, their adulation pouring down from the seats above.  In the distance, he could hear people in every language enthusiastically reporting on the results, the unfamiliar vowels and consonants tickling the backs of his ears.  A Russian commentator was closest to them, and the silver-haired skater heard him mention something about retirement, a word that Victor had thrown around a handful of times in the last few months.

He smiled, because he knew the pictures from the event would be plastered all over the internet in a matter of minutes.  He smiled, because it made him look humbled and grateful for the award, which he was.  He smiled, because ultimately, it was what was expected of him.  But there was something absent from the motion, hinted at in his eyes, which were curiously untouched by the winning grin.

Victor’s coach, his fellow competitors, even fans approached him afterwards, and he graciously waved them away, taking a few photos before ducking into a darkened warm-up room.  Relief washed over him as the door clicked shut, the silence buzzing in his ears after hours of constant noise.  Plopping down on a nearby seat, Victor went to work untying the laces on his skates, gold medal dangling  _ just so _ to get in the way of his hands.  Tossing it back over his shoulder, Victor felt his feet breathe deeply as the footwear loosened, the spots that were going to bruise already apparent now that they were free to move as they pleased.  These were newer skates that he hadn’t had the opportunity to break in; normally he would never end a season with a pair that he wasn’t intimately familiar with, but an unfortunate breakage in his previous set made it impossible for him to avoid.

He sighed, flexing his foot as he crossed his right ankle over his left knee before laying his belly flat against his thighs, feeling the familiar pull of the stretch in his hip.  Victor stayed still for a few moments, enjoying the time to himself to allow his mind and body to rearrange itself following everything that had happened.  Every moment from this one on was one he hadn’t planned for, the future looming over him as it inched closer.

As he switched the position of his legs, Victor rested his forehead on the inner edge of his shin.  The medal shifted down, falling between his legs.  He grabbed it between his thumb and forefinger, shifting it in what little light there was as he examined his prize, so very similar to the others he had collected in his years on the ice.  Normally, this moment was accompanied with pride, excitement at what he had managed to accomplish.  He had been tricked to holding onto a pain that he didn’t have to, and it lingered now, even though he had attempted to rid himself of it during his final performance.

Sighing, Victor gathered his belongings in an old duffel bag before exiting the room and heading back in the direction of the general populace.  He could hear the chatter well before he approached the ballroom, where reporters waited anxiously for the arrival of the winners.  The flashes from the cameras twinkled like stars when he entered the room, increasing in frequency as he revealed his striking, heart-shaped grin while giving a quick wave for the crowd.  Taking his place between the competitors he had bested, the time passed Victor in a hazy, trance-like state; he answered questions with little thought until one reporter asked his plans for the next season.  The Russian paused, the words rolling around on his tongue as he felt his heart constrict further.  That… was a good question.  One he wasn’t ready to answer.  His index finger traveled to his chin.

“I’m still in the process of solidifying my plans for next year,” he said finally, murmurs rippling through the crowd in response to the vague answer.  “But I’m currently working on some choreography that I think will be very exciting.  I hope I get the chance to share it with you soon.”

With that, the conference ended, reporters calling out to the victors as they left in the hopes that they would give any additional comments.  As the three exited the room through a back door leading to a maintenance hallway, Chris threw an arm around Victor’s shoulder.

“Any news?” he asked, the two of them falling into step as they moved forward.  Victor shook his head, leaning it against Chris’s neck.  A sigh escaped his friend, morose and sympathetic, before he repeated what he had said during their last meeting.  “Fuck ‘im.”

A smile found itself on Victor’s lips, small and bitter as he remained silent.  He didn’t want to agree with the sentiment.  He didn’t want to disagree.  He just wanted to feel like himself again, and that required letting it all go.

The Russian spent the night alone, splitting off from Chris as soon as he had the chance.  His room felt larger than it had earlier in the night, the loneliness of it hitting him in with a closed fist.  This was the last night of the season, the prospect of staying home in St. Petersburg for several months usually bittersweet because it meant he was forced to slow down and deal with all the stress that came with his work.  That task seemed especially arduous now.  Tossing his clothes into a pile, Victor climbed into bed and fell into a deep sleep, the blackness behind his eyes a comforting certainty.

Another banquet, another flight, another reunion with his pooch, another check, another rush to try and clean his damn apartment for once.  Eight days passed by in the blink of an eye.

He was on his couch, watching TV as he ignored the growling of his stomach; figuring out what to do for lunch was not something he was yet mentally prepared for, his own laziness slowly starving him.  In his defense, Makkachin was tucked between his legs, and he never had the heart to move her.  He recalled a comic of a skeleton with a cat in its lap, the police looking it over as they determined that the feline’s refusal to move was the cause of death.

Two quick vibrations rattled against the surface of his coffee table, his phone resting face down on its surface.  Confusion was imminent as he saw the text he had received and who the sender was.  Chris had sent him a link, the series of numbers and letters obscuring what hid behind it.  

  
Without much thought, Victor clicked it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter brought to you by One Republic's "Dream", which I totally had on repeat whenever I wrote this.
> 
> Apologies for the delay! I can't guarantee it won't happen again, though. I have another convention I'm heading out to next weekend so I've got lots of ducks to keep in order before then. I'll try and have something out by the first week in February!
> 
> Thanks again for reading. I hope it continues to be enjoyable! This chapter was hard. -_-


	7. The Video

The door came to a padded close just ahead of him, the unexpected noise pulling Victor out of the trancelike state he was in; realizing that his index finger was traveling the length of his lips, the Russian pulled the digit down into the rest of his fist as he struggled to stay in the present moment.  He was on the first of three flights, one of the longest days he would ever know stretched out ahead of his generous seat in the First Class cabin.  But what rested at the end of it made the wait worth it.

With a smile, he accepted the glass of chilled vodka the stewardess offered him, sipping on it as he gazed out the window.  His eyes landed on the stocky frame of his coach leaning against a row of seamless windows that ran along the plane’s right side, the wrinkled corners of his lips pulling down into the ugliest of frowns.  Yakov hadn’t been happy with their conversation, but he was hardly in a position to dispute anything that was happening now, a fact that pleased and relieved Victor.  Raising his glass, Victor gave him a winning smile before finishing off its contents, handing the empty vessel to a passing attendant now that he was done with it.

_ Come and visit me in Japan!  _ Victor mouthed out the window, trying to keep the hand waving a cheerful goodbye from looking too asinine.  As they pulled away from the gate and readied themselves on the runway, Victor tugged his headphones out from the small day pack tucked under the seat in front of him.  Once situated over his ears, Victor selected something calm to keep that small feeling of panic that always accompanied take-offs under control.

This was it.

 

*   *   *

 

“This will be the biggest mistake of your life!” the older man’s voice rang in his ears, the gruff boom of it slapping the finely decorated walls of the restaurant Victor had invited them to.  It was Yakov’s favorite place in St. Petersburg, its white partitions adorned with ornately carved paneling and large canvas print-outs of Romantic-era paintings.  Thick, granite pillars surrounded the main dining hall and the heavy slate-colored curtains that framed the windows were generously pulled back to reveal the alarmed glances that came in response to the explosion of sound from Yakov’s mouth.  Victor smiled, though even he wasn’t sure how genuine it was.

“Maybe,” he said, voice light as he took a sip of the white wine that had been carefully paired with his fish.  “It’ll be more fun to find out, don’t you think?”

“Look, I know I said you have five more years, but that’s with your current momentum,” Yakov had finally bybassed Denial and Anger and was onto the Bargaining stage of Grief.  “Getting sponsors again will be difficult.  Remember how much of a slog it was when you were younger?  That was when it was easy to pitch you as a long-term investment!”

Ah, yes.  Victor remembered the awkward introductions to suits well, a simper pressed firmly onto his face as the adults discussed his career in a way that implied he wasn’t in the room.  At the time, Victor’s ambition would keep him focused enough on his future that these meetings didn’t bother him much, but as he matured he insisted on more personal connections with the people paying his bills.  His relationship with them was so good that they had yet to pull their pledges, even as curiously undenied rumors of retirement flurried around him.  Comparing him to the child he used to be wasn’t a fair fight.

“There’s one thing that I have now that I didn’t have then,” the gold medalist began, and Yakov quirked a brow in challenge, folding thick arms across a wide chest.

“What’s that?” the older man humored the continuation of the thought.

“I’m Victor Nikiforov.” The declaration lacked any arrogance, and the sweet smile that followed showed he meant it as nothing other than a statement of fact.  His coach glared at him, perpetually angry eyes half lidded and cut off by his prominent brow.  Staring each other down, the two men played a silent game of chicken as they waited for the other to speak.  Victor, however, had the upper hand, and Yakov knew it.

With an ugly sigh, the coach went back to his red meat, popping the last corner of his well done steak into his mouth before wiping at the corners with his napkin.  He chewed angrily, teeth clacking against each other as they worked; his eyes burned into Victor’s face, who ignored him by finishing off the remainder of his own meal.  It was easy to see that Yakov was unhappy with his decision, but he was out of cards to play at this point--he had threatened that Victor would drop off into irrelevancy, insinuated that he’d lose his last few remaining years, potentially embarrassed him to his rinkmates, and now brought up the topic of sponsorship.  There was nothing left for him to throw.  And so Victor ate, unable to keep the grin off his face.

“I just don’t know, Vitya,” Yakov grumbled, nearly inaudible over the hum of other conversations in the room.  “I don’t like this.”

“I could tell,” replied Victor, running his teeth along the prongs of his fork as he removed a morsel from it.  It was a stunning display of self-control, but Victor had plenty of that, having dealt with Yakov for most of his life and knowing that there was no point in feeding into his bad moods.  Patience was something the medalist prided himself with… but only when it came to dealing with people.  Still, it felt good to have the advantage for once.

“I am… concerned.” The admission was quiet as his eyes scanned the room in a way that made Victor think Yakov was trying to avoid being seen  _ feeling  _ anything.  “You don’t know this boy.  It… is hard to see you throw away your future for someone who might not understand what that means for you at this age.”

Victor paused for a moment, raising a hand to his cheek as he felt a small amount of guilt for the momentary gloat.  Remembering that Yakov wanted the best for him was difficult, given the man’s extraordinary inability to express anything resembling emotion.  But the sheer amount of effort that it took for his coach to say the words touched him, the attempt to bridge the gap he had dug between them gratefully accepted.

“Are you sure you want to do this?” Yakov muttered, and it was the first time in recent memory that Victor could recall being asked what he wanted.  “You’ve still got plenty of time.”

Shaking his head, Victor reached across the table to pat the hands resting on the other side.  Yakov stiffened, but that was Yakov.  “It’s not about how much time I have left.  It’s about finding something better.  Just for right now.”

The frown creasing Yakov’s brow deepened as the older man listened and processed the information.  Releasing a heavy breath through his nose, Yakov’s arms made their way across his chest again as he reluctantly accepted the reality that Victor was presenting.

“...Fine.  Do what you will.  I’m officially done with this.”  The medalist couldn’t stop the grin that followed.  “But you’re buying me a damn dessert.” 

It would, in fact, not be the last time that Victor heard Yakov’s opinion about it that night, his verbal assault continuing in short bursts on their way to the airport and punctuated with hugs and kisses on the cheek from his student (met with varying levels of acceptance).  But the knowledge that his coach was acting like an asshole out of a place of worry rather than an attempt to continue cashing in on his talent made the grumpiness easier to deal with.  

 

*   *   *

 

The violent forward loll of his head brought Victor out of the twilight from his near-doze, the uneven landing rattling most of the passengers in the plane.  Excited murmurs rippled through the cabin as they pulled to the gate, but Victor remained silent, eyes fixed firmly on the door once the small bag at his feet rested on his shoulder.  When it opened, he was the first to step through, quickly dodging his fellow first class riders as they fidgeted with their overhead baggage.  Upon entering the terminal, he gave a generous look around, the squat, dull ceiling tiles sucking the light out of his rather unremarkable surroundings.  Still, even without a view, Victor couldn’t help but feel lighter, the weight of all his problems securely stored in his apartment in St. Petersburg for the time being.

Moscow.  He was in Moscow now.  The first flight was officially done, but the next one to Seoul would be the real test of Victor’s patience, with the 90 minute layover between each leg of the journey feeling similarly insufferable.  Time would march forward, as it always had, but this day would undoubtedly feel as though it were going at half-speed.

Adjusting the strap for his bag, Victor thought to buy some time by checking to see where the gate for his next flight was, which turned out to be infuriatingly close.  A sigh escaped him, the weight of his boredom already settling on his shoulders.  He wasn’t hungry, so food wasn’t an option, and as the airport was one he was deeply familiar with there was little fun in exploring it.  Defeated, the medalist plopped himself into one of the seats carefully placed between a row of shops, folding his arms loosely over his chest as he slumped back against the wall, his pelvis resting at the edge of the chair.  It was probably the most undignified position he’d ever been in, petulance motivating him to lie at such an acute angle to the base of his seat that his chin pressed into his collarbone, neck eaten in the vacuum of space between his shoulders and head.  Another sigh escaped him, his bottom lip pushing it upwards to toss his bangs away from his face.  Stubbornly, they flopped back to where they had been before.

“Victor?”

The skater jumped upright, a blush creeping across the bridge of his nose at how ignominious he must have looked, slouched so dramatically that he resembled a child at the end of a temper tantrum.  His addressor stood beside him, a brunette woman whose hair looked like a shadow around her green eyes, hiding behind the jagged pixie cut that barely touched her ears.  Traces of makeup remained on her face, the skin under her eyes proudly carrying the telltale signs of old mascara.  It was the trademark uniform of many people in airports, already consigning themselves to a long, unhygienic day.  She was white, her thick body a collection of wide curves hidden under a bundle of clothes.  It took a moment for him to remember who she was, but he did, and a small swell of pride came with his ability to recollect their meeting at the Grand Prix Final just a few months prior.   

“Oh, hello!” Victor grinned, standing to address his new American friend.  “You’re the opera singer from the banquet, right?  Forgive me, I seem to have forgotten your name.”

A small fart noise escaped her lips, almost as unbecoming as his posture when she had discovered him.  Her hand waved away any offense that might have been taken.

“Oh, please, don’t worry about it.  I’m lucky I remember mine with the amount of people I meet in a week.”  Extending her palm to him, she smiled as she formally introduced herself for the second time (at least).  “I’m Magda.”

The unclenching of his muscles was apparent even to him; there were only so many times one could survive the awkward tension that came with forgetting someone’s name, and Victor had had more than his fair share.  It was relieving to be in the presence of someone who possessed some inkling of understanding.  Accepting her hand, he gave it a hearty shake, the strength of her grip leaving on his skin a momentary whiteness where her fingers had been.  As he attempted to ruefully rub his hand without her notice, Victor steered the conversation to its next natural destination.

“Where are you headed to today?” he asked.  Magda pointed a finger behind her, in no particular direction.

“I’m headed back to California to enjoy the sunshine for a bit,” the delivery of the response betrayed a glee that could only be present when talking about one’s home.  “We just wrapped our run last night, which means I have a couple of months to myself before the next one.”

“Wonderful! I’m quite jealous, especially around this time of year.”  The just-above-freezing temperatures plagued St. Petersburg for a good portion of the year and god was he really so boring that he had to rely on the weather for conversation.  No wonder Yuri hadn’t called, if he were this dull at their first meeting.  Pushing the thought aside, Victor continued on.  “I’ve been to California a few times, actually.  It’s quite nice.”

“Really?” Despite her assumed knowledge of his travel history, she seemed surprised.

“Yeah!  Where do you live?”  The Russian realized the forwardness of the inquiry, curving the point of the question with a sheepish correction.  “If you don’t mind telling, I mean.  I might have visited.”

“I highly doubt it,” she laughed, completely unbothered.  “I live in the armpit of the desert.”

“Sounds exciting.  And…” His nose wrinkled for a moment, dark creases appearing between his eyes.  “...Unpleasant.  But try me!”

“Phelan.”  The hints of mascara around her eyes highlighted the mischievous glint in them.

Brows arching up delicately in confusion, Victor clarified, “Feeling?  That’s the name?”

She laughed again, an amiable weariness implying that she had had this conversation millions of times.  “No, Phelan!”

“Never heard of it.”

“I told you!”  A short finger wagged at him playfully.  “People only know about the vicinity because it’s on the way to Vegas.  It’s a great place to disappear.”

Interesting way of putting it.  A good-natured expression rested on his features as he casually asked, “Do you do that often?”

“It’s always a good idea to go somewhere that humbles you.”  A smirk cracked across the calm expression she had been maintaining.  “Especially when you work in the arts.”

“Aren’t artists full of enough self-loathing as it is?”  Resting a hand on his hip, Victor realized that his head was craned up slightly to maintain eye contact.  She was tall.  Must have been a Belgian in a past life.

“A good question, but I have to deduct points for pretension,” she teased, the barb perhaps a bit too harsh.  The Russian released a nervous chuckle at the brunt force of her honesty.  “I’ll match it, though.  We hate ourselves because we live in a bubble.  What we offer to the world is an experience.”  Magda’s tone was light, as if she were teaching a class.  “But experiences only last for a moment, and even if people are able to relive them over and over, they’ll eventually come back for something new.  So we spend years of our lives pouring into a single creation only to have it consumed in an instant, and have hands outstretched in our faces for more.”  Sighing, the American shook her head, her eyes distant.  “It makes everything feel pointless, because so much time became so irrelevant so quickly.”  Her shoulders shrugged in a way that made them look weighted, and Victor could feel a similar heaviness in his own.  “And we’re grateful to the people that are so excited that they want to see more of what we have to offer, but we don’t feel comfortable enough to step away from what we do in order to gather ourselves to try again.”

Victor blinked, her words flowing like lyrics.  It sounded more as though she were speaking a song than having a conversation.  But what she said had definitely hit a spot of truth within him.  That dissatisfaction was what pushed him to go to Japan, the unspoken pressure of knowing that you were never good enough the day after you stopped performing.  And yet there was a similar fear on the opposite end, reminding him that coaching would make him just as pointless as outright retirement.

“I think I understand what you mean,”  The response reached his ears, though Victor didn’t mean to say it.  With a laugh, Magda responded with complete understanding.

“Of course you do.  You have to come up with a new routine every year.”  Winking, she added cheekily, “I cheated and decided to focus on things that have existed for  _ hundreds  _ of years.”

“But you burn out quickly?”  It was difficult to mask the hint of surprise he had at the idea.

“Singing opera is very exhausting, yes.  Much more physical than you’d imagine.”

“Oh?” At Victor’s quirked eyebrow, Magda nodded with great enthusiasm.

“Try maintaining the pressure in a balloon with a hole in it.  Now imagine that balloon is your entire body.”

“Wow.”  The word was said in a way that many of his peers would claim was his signature; a hint of breathiness as he tossed it up into the air, the sound arching back down as he finished.  It was the only way he knew how to be impressed, and it was hopelessly endearing.  After she smiled in response to the gift of Victor’s enthusiasm, Magda brought the conversation back down to earth.

“Separating yourself from your art once in a while is the healthiest thing you can do.  It’s hard to exist in the real world when your work and play focus on escapism.”

“Indeed.”  

The advice was a little too apt.  Was that what Victor needed?  To step away?  There was no reason this needed to be permanent, and maybe Yuri would be more likely to agree to the impromptu follow-up on the coaching situation if there were just a short amount of time involved with the commitment.  Initially, Victor didn’t consider how long his “break” would last, but was so desperate for a change that he didn’t really care.  Perhaps it was plausible for him to come back after just a few months.  Maybe just until the GPF.  He had yet to announce his break to his sponsors, and this might make them more willing to stay onboard.

“Ah,” The singer’s voice floated into his thoughts, it’s roundness unobtrusive but impossible to ignore. “My flight’s going to be boarding shortly, so I’m afraid I have to go.  It was great seeing you again!”

“Same to you!”  For just a moment, Victor leaned forward, left hand reaching around the flesh of her upper arm just above the elbow.  “Thank you.”  The gratitude was quiet, expression brightened with a pleasant peace that came with his new direction.

She didn’t pay much mind to the thanks he gave, though the words were thoroughly sincere, bidding a quick farewell as she pulled a leopard print carry-on case behind her.  A glance at his watch revealed that more than a half hour had passed; time was generous today, Victor thought.  The remaining hour was spent in front of his gate as he stared at the flashing lights on his phone screen, a rhythm game pumping out a mindless beat through his headphones.  Plisetsky sent him a text, having realized that they were playing the game at the same time--the preview of his message at the top of Victor’s screen revealed a screencap of a rare variation of a character the teen had recently unlocked.  A surge of petty jealousy rocked Victor for just a moment before he heard his boarding group called, and he was quite content to ignore the junior for the next 9 hours in recompense for beating Victor to his mobile “waifu”, as Yuri would call them.

Victor tapped out a quick text to Mila that read, “On the second flight!  Let me know when you get everything shipped out.  Thank you again!”

After what felt like ages, the soft thud of the door pushed through his headphones, and he released a breath as he turned off his phone and waited for the longest flight of his life to pass.

 

*    *    *

 

“ _ Moving! _ ” Mila exclaims, equal parts excited and offended that she didn’t know sooner.  Under her arm was tucked a collection of boxes, the familiar purple and orange logo plastered on the side.  More were waiting in her car, she explained breathlessly before making her way through the door and kneeling to greet Makkachin.  After Victor had the opportunity to elaborate, he showed Mila the video.  When it stopped, silence lingered in the room as the gears turned loudly in her head.  Finally, she opened her mouth to speak.

“So... what do you think this means?” the question revealed itself slowly, more to clarify his thought process than to invite speculation.  Victor felt the all too familiar blush creep across his nose, far beyond caring about his own embarrassment at this point.

“I think this must mean that there’s a reason why he hasn’t gotten in touch,” he said, optimism brightening the phrase as he went on, the idea that he wasn’t rejected making him feel familiar and happy.  “Maybe he lost my number, or… something.  Either way, the timing is pretty consistent with what I thought would happen.”

“Couldn’t he just get in touch over Touchbook or something?”

“I don’t think he uses social media.”  There wasn’t much evidence in his favor, he could admit.  But there was less to disprove him.

Seemingly telepathic, Mila shook her head dubiously, muttering with little tact, “Man, I don’t know about this.  Seems a little dumb.”

At the darkening of his expression, the redhead realized her mistake, but didn’t backpedal entirely.  “Don’t get me wrong.  It’s romantic as hell, and it sounds like fun.  But this…”  Head bobbing, Mila pretended to search for the words.  “...is a little dumb.”

A quick exhale through his nose served as a chuckle in response.

“You’re so kind,” came the bittersweet reply.  The woman shrugged.

“Hey, I’m honest.  But I also think you should do what you want and damn the consequences, so long as you know about them up front.” Another shrug, this one slightly more exaggerated, with her hands held palm-up at her shoulders.  “So feel free to follow whatever piece of advice you prefer.”

“How helpful.”  At least she wasn’t actively discouraging him.  Not that it would have worked at this point.

‘You bet.”  A wink and a pair of finger guns accompanied the retort, a shared laugh bouncing between them as the tension in the room broke.  

Releasing a sigh, the Russian combed his fingers through his hair as he glanced around the room in an attempt to inventory what he wanted to take.  It was some combination of everything and nothing.  Everything, because he was sentimental and liked to think that all his possessions had some form of sentimental value to him.  Nothing, because he was lazy and didn’t want to bother shipping it.  Victor needed help figuring out what to bring and how to bring it.  He needed someone with a level head, which was why he called the most responsible person he knew--an 18 year old woman that at times seemed to take pride in her lack of physical restraint.  Grabbing a box, Victor went for a small wooden parcel on his coffee table, tucking it in the front corner with little discretion.

“Speaking of helpful,” Mila hardly let him finish the action without speaking.  “Why are you packing coasters?  Your first priority is coasters?”  Helplessly, blue eyes darted around the room, Victor coming face to face with his poor prioritization skills.  His friend sighed, shaking her head as she lead him towards his bedroom closet.  “Come on, we’ve only got a few hours.  Why don’t we start with clothes first…?”

With the female medalist’s help, the task of packing felt much less arduous, several boxes already stuffed before an hour had passed.  Victor took a step back, assessing their work in silence as the gravity of his decision started to weigh on him.  A hand landed on his shoulder, the rough pat from Mila done in the hopes of quiet consolation. 

“The gremlin is not gonna be happy about this,” she muttered after releasing a breath, referring to their disgruntled friend that Shall Not Be Named.

“Best if we don’t tell him, then,” Victor said, bringing his right index finger to his lips as his left arm looped around her shoulders.  She stared at him, her gaze dubious.

“You know Yakov’s gonna tell him.”

There was no arguing with facts.

“Then let’s enjoy the quiet before he does.”  
  


*   *   *

The relief that washed over Victor when his plane touched down for a second time that day was measurably greater than it was earlier; the nearly nine hour flight etched itself into his joints, felt acutely as they creaked with each step into the terminal.  After securing a meal comprising of traditional Korean offerings, the skater settled into a table tucked near a towering wall of windows, his eyes tracing the length of the metal pillars that touched down from the ceiling, smaller versions of themselves webbing above him in identical patterns.  The airport was decidedly grey, less dank than Sheremetyevo in Moscow but dim all the same.

Clicking his phone off of airplane mode, Victor allowed the real world to get back in touch, only a few text messages trickling in after his lengthy journey.  Ignoring them, his finger inched towards the Touchbook app, continuing on to the search bar at the top of the screen after it had opened.  The name “Yuri Katsuki” appeared as a recent inquiry--an unbiased presentation of his embarrassing crush--and as a blush pooled in his cheeks he quickly tapped it, finding the desired profile within moments.  It had been a while since Victor had looked into Katsuki’s social media, but here, on the precipice of meeting him again, the Russian felt oddly nervous.  This search, done in private and only a handful of times, represented a theoretical possibility that had remained something comfortably unreal until this very moment.  Now there was only a handful of hours until Yuri Katsuki, a collection of letters attached to the flat image of his face, became a flesh and blood person again.  Would things be as easy between them again?  Was Yuri still interested in him?

Victor’s heart shook for a moment when he saw that a new public post had been made on Yuri’s page only a week ago, written out twice--once in English, the other in Japanese.  It was brief, the phrasing so neutral that it was nearly clinical.

_ Have decided to return to Japan for the first time in years.  My future is unclear at the moment, but I am still hopeful to see what it can bring. _

The Russian set his phone down, distracting himself with his food as he processed what this update meant.  To most, it would be a casual reveal of relocation.  To Victor it was a realization that he actually did use his social media, which opened him up to a new realm of possibilities.  This gave him the opportunity to get in touch with Yuri before he even arrived, to test the waters or ease the tension that usually came with new, fragile friendships.  

Victor was nervous at the idea, however.  He didn’t know  _ why  _ he was nervous, but the fact remained true all the same.  He was so apprehensive that he didn’t look at his phone for the better part of a half hour, allowing the minutes to tick by in his thorough examination of his breakfast.  When he finally picked it up, it was to check the time, and his heartbeat quickened as he realized that his plane would be boarding in a few minutes.  

This preoccupation lingered even as he lowered himself into his final seat of the day, placed proudly in the front row for the easiest access to the exit.  Once landed, he wanted no obstacles to the onsen, arranging for everything to be delivered in the afternoon after he had settled in.  Annoyance nudged at his anxiety, the skater unsure as to why he was so divided about whether or not he should message a cute boy.  Victor thought of himself as fairly good looking.  His father’s bald spot was like a ticking time bomb for his own receding hairline, but that gene hadn’t reared its shiny head yet.  Besides, talent should outweigh at least a few of his faults, and he had quite a bit of that.  He was  _ Victor Nikiforov. _

Offended at ability to doubt himself, Victor opened up Yuri’s profile again before he tapped on the “Message” button.  

_ Hi!  I’m Victor Nikiforov. _

Victor tapped the backspace key with a  _ tsk! _  No need to introduce himself, his name was right there.

_ I just wanted to follow up with you about the banquet-- _

What was he, a salesman?

_ Did it hurt when you fell from heaven? _

Okay, so maybe this was a little more difficult than he thought. 

As he took a deep breath, Victor tried one last time to gather his thoughts.  It should be friendly.  Professional.  Succinct.  Maybe the tiniest bit flirtatious.  His fingers grazed the screen in slow succession.

_ I hope this note finds you well.   _

_ I recently saw your video and I have to admit, I was absolutely enthralled by it.  I wanted to get in touch to let you know that I see a lot of potential in your work and have decided to come see you in Japan to discuss your future.  I’d love to coach you.  I think we’d work quite well together.  I’ll be in town early in the afternoon today and will be stopping by your family’s onsen at my earliest convenience. _

_ See you soon. ;) _

There.  That seemed pretty good.  Victor could be eloquent enough when he put his mind to it.  Before he had time to second-guess himself, the flight door closed, signaling to the passengers that it was time to turn off the transmitting functions of his device.  Hastily, he tapped the ‘send’ button, hoping he hadn’t missed anything.  The medalist slipped on his headphones, folding his legs as the plane pulled away from their gate.  In his ears, a man murmured a soft song about hope.

90 more minutes.

*   *   *

 

The video stopped, a single frame of Yuri’s face looking past him as it rested 

behind other suggestions.  It was difficult for Victor to see it, as the adrenaline that was coursing roughly through his veins shook his hands like leaves in a breeze.  The memories he’d fought so hard to keep in check were playing on repeat, the hopes he had stuffed down into his guts now poking out to see if the coast was clear.  

Yuri Katsuki had memorized his Free Skate, motion for motion, and performed it.  It wasn’t for an audience, or at least, not one larger than the person filming, but the fact remained that his choreography lived on so perfectly and so exactly in someone else.  Granted, the jumps had been dumbed down a bit, but no one really  _ enjoyed  _ doing quad jumps--they were a great challenge and a necessary evil, but for non-competitive pieces even Victor preferred to keep his jumps simple.  Regardless, this took a lot of effort.

The world of professional figure skating was not one that was free from politics--there were a lot of reasons why someone would do something like this.  Mimicking someone’s program could be taken a lot of ways, the most common being an unspoken statement on the copycat’s ability to do it better.  This tended to spark a lot of online debate and keep the skater’s name circulating in media if they weren’t strong enough to finish the competitive season.  While it didn’t do anything when it came to the results, it tended to repair potentially botched relationships with sponsors.

But as the routine was only identical in choreography and not in jump composition, this didn’t seem like the case.  This seemed like a genuine expression of something, but Victor was unable to understand what it was.  Admiration?  Respect?  Or…

Was this his way of reaching out to Victor?  To make him see that something had gone awry and to let him know there was a reason he wasn’t able to get in touch?

With an unsteady hand, Victor watched the video again, eyes focused solely on the other’s face, as though it would turn to him mid-video to explain just what the hell was going on.  It was a fruitless effort, but it allowed the Russian to re-familiarize himself with a countenance that he had tried to put out of his mind, taking notice of things he hadn’t had the opportunity to see previously.  His eyes traced along the slight curve of his jaw, the silhouette of his face much more round than Victor’s.  The bridge of his nose was flatter, the base of it wider; soft brown eyes were clouded with music that wasn’t playing, but Victor could hear all the same.  Yuri was casting a spell on the Russian again, his body moving with enough momentum that no accompaniment was necessary.  The Japanese skater’s shirt waved at him, giving him small peeks at skin he had seen so wonderfully exposed at the night of the banquet.

The recording ended again and Victor had no more answers than he did previously.  The third and fourth times he watched it yielded even fewer results.  His head spinning, he finally responded to Chris, realizing that an hour had passed since the link had been sent.

_ Wow. _  It was all Victor could think to send, but muscled out more of a response shortly after.   _ What do you think this means? _

_ Why don’t you try asking him? _  The response from the Swiss came more quickly than Victor expected.  Chris must’ve been pretty invested in this, too.

_ He doesn’t update social media much at all.  I don’t think he checks it.  Aside from that, I don’t know how to talk with him… _

_ No wonder people hate millennials.  There are other ways of getting in touch, you know. _

Victor rolled his eyes at the jab, thumbs tapping on the keys to get in a quick retort.

_ I’m an old man, remember?  What are you talking about? _

_ I’m saying you know where he lives. _

Now Victor’s fingers were still, eyes tracing the words to make sure he understood their implication.  Technically, Chris was correct, though Victor wasn’t sure if Yuri was home to visit family in the off-season.  But even if that were the case, the idea didn’t settle into Victor’s brain easily.

_ Showing up at his doorstep?  Isn’t that a little… creepy? _

_ Probably.   _ It was a response that implied the silver medalist was no stranger to poorly-executed ideas.   _ But maybe not  _ as  _ creepy in this situation.  Think about it.  He just released a hugely popular video featuring your routine after asking you to be his coach.  Maybe this is him announcing that for you. _

_ Really?  That’s a little presumptuous. _

_ Him, or me? _

_ Yes. _  Victor’s reply was intentionally vague, though he didn’t want Chris to be wrong.  

_ I guess so.  But think of how romantic it would be, Victor! _

Chris did not particularly seem the romantic type, but Victor certainly was, and it was hard to keep his brain in check now that Chris had introduced a best-case scenario.  The gold medalist’s heart had stopped rattling, now beating quite solidly against his chest, overwhelmed with ideas.  Watching the video again had revealed that the rink it was recorded at was in Japan, and a quick google image search matched it with the Ice Castle rink in Hasetsu.  Before he realized it, he was sending another text to his Swiss friend.

_ I guess I could use a vacation… _

That’s how Victor could afford to think of it.  A vacation.  A vacation where he’d be coaching his former competitor, one that may or may not have seduced him at a banquet that went wildly off the rails.  He’d go to Japan, talk to Yuri, figure out what happened, have a mature, adult conversation about their potential coaching relationship, and…

And what?

Come back here?  Keep skating alone?  Use the choreography he’d been working on for a piece that he thought was boring?  Eros was something people expected from him at this point, and were he going for an easy paycheck, he was more or less content to run out the next year’s season using that routine.

He supposed.

Or he could give it to someone else.  Someone that he was taking time off to coach.  He could move to Japan, wake up somewhere different, bathe in a hot spring, and tell a cute guy what to do.  That sounded… pretty amazing, actually.

The thought blinked to life in the back of his mind.  Victor could feel his path shifting of its own accord again, the road ahead of him pointing itself towards something brighter.  Blinking, he found himself searching for flights on his phone, arranging them by shortest itinerary.  The less time in transit, the less likely it would be for him to back out.  Not that he wanted to… but he wanted to give the “smarter” side of him less opportunity to let its opinion be known.

Having an international career meant that Victor had several active multi-entry visas available for more than a handful of countries, Japan being one of them.  His impulsive nature meant that continually renewing visas to places he was more likely to visit was easier than keeping only a few at a time; this allowed him the freedom to accompany any of his rinkmates at competitions he felt like joining them at, and it relieved any stress of having to remember whether or not he had credentials when his assignments were announced.  

Blinking again, his phone displayed the subject line of a new email in his inbox, all capitalized letters indicating that his itinerary to Fukuoka was confirmed for the day after tomorrow.  Taking a quick screencap, Victor sent it to Chris, pulse pounding in his head as he thought of everything that needed to be taken care of in the short amount of time he had left.  His phone buzzed back almost immediately.

_Good luck._ _:)_

He was certainly in need of it this time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter brought to you by Mutemath's "Composed" from their Vitals album. It may or may not be my unofficial Victor song.
> 
> Phew! SO sorry for the delay in this. Real life tackled me hard, and this was surprisingly long?! I wanted to experiment with the flights as a framing device, so let me know what you think.
> 
> Thanks for reading, and your comments!


	8. Encounter

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just as a bit of a heads up, since we're now in the anime timeline I'm obviously going to be referencing scenes from it directly. I'm gonna try avoiding it as much as I can, since I don't really want to tread water, but in these instances, I might diverge from the original dialog and blocking slightly to make the scenes flow a little better into whatever continuations I might write for them.

There were about a million different ways that Victor imagined meeting the love of his life that didn’t involve being naked, jetlagged, slumberdrunk, or starving.  And yet, somehow, their first encounter had managed to package all of these horrible details into a single instance.  He remembered it vaguely now, sleepiness and the steam licking off the surface of the water clouding it like a dream--Victor almost wished it was.  But Victor was also not one to hold onto regret, and so he moved forward with what he was given when he finally laid eyes on his bewildered Japanese dreamboat.  

“W-Why are you here?” he heard the other stutter, and without shame, Victor pulled himself out of the spring, every part of him on full display.  The Russian wasn’t exactly shy about his body or others seeing it, since his early years in dance would frequently come with tight dressing quarters that were shared, each person that was crammed into the rooms too focused on what they needed to do next to care about how many clothes the others were or weren’t wearing.  Victor assumed that since the hapless skater had barged into his bath that he had a similar relationship with nudity, but the blush that painted his cheeks as he struggled to keep his eyes plastered on the medalist’s face seemed to differ.  

“Yuri!” Victor sang, the name feeling different on his tongue, given the owner.  As he held his hand out invitingly, Victor flashed a winning smile to detract from the awkwardness of the gesture.  He wasn’t sure what he was going for--the stronger possibilities were that he was wordlessly asking the performer to join him, or extending it for a shake, but given the amount of sleep he was operating on he just kind of rolled with it. “I’m here to be your coach.  Let’s go get gold at the Grand Prix Final!”  He winked, referencing their inside joke where Victor’s presence was the punchline.  Yuri didn’t seem to get it, or so the wailing scream of confusion that followed seemed to imply.

On the way to Japan, Victor had pictured every part of their reunion in vivid detail, but reality was cruel; time ticked on mercilessly as the Russian struggled to keep his eyes open. The next few hours passed in quiet glances that Yuri thought Victor didn’t notice as he was formally introduced to family members, who seemed to be quite familiar with him already  The way his mother’s eyes lit up when she saw him and exclaimed “Oh,  _ you’re  _ Vicchan!” implied that Yuri must have spoken about him before.  Victor allowed himself a small grin as he imagined Yuri talking about him with others, cheeks pink, eyes wide and bright.  The thought summoned a small  kaleidoscope of butterflies that flurried in his chest.

Following that, stuffing his face was the next item on the checklist before Victor passed out on the floor when the hot meal mixed with his jetlag.  The short power nap and Second Dinner that followed immediately after his waking brought him closer to normalcy, but he didn’t quite feel like himself until Yuri began leading him through the inn to find his room, his silent guide carrying a stray box of Victor’s things that had been left in the entryway.  It was now that Victor had the opportunity to appreciate his surroundings, the young man included.  While he had been in Japan many times, he’d never actually had the opportunity to explore an onsen before, and it was quite a change from the architecture he was used to in St. Petersburg.  Wood lined just about every surface, sectioned off into neat rectangles framed by dark planks.  The hall was lined on either side with something he recalled as being named  _ shoji _ ; walls and doors made of a wood frame assembled into identical squares that stood floor to ceiling, covered with paper.  Or rather, he thought that they were normally made with paper, but a secret tap on the surface of one as he passed by revealed it was something harder that he couldn’t place.

As they neared the door that he assumed belonged to him, Yuri’s sister (whose nametag generously reminded him that her name was Mari) and an unfortunate-looking CedEx employee emerged from the room behind it, no doubt exhausted from the arduous task of moving all of the Russian’s things into the room.  Graciously, Victor signed for the packages while Mari left, eager to carry on with relevant work.  Yuri had already ducked inside the room and was examining the contents with nervous interest.

It was now that it Victor realized they were alone, the thought making itself insidiously known as the Russian took his turn to steal a glance at his host, who was currently bent over to place the box he was carrying on the ground.  A warmth spread across his collarbones, pooling in his chest, as he watched the other move; Yuri had been withdrawn and much more subdued since the medalist’s arrival, which was to be expected since he had shown up unannounced, more or less (the message Victor sent was still unread when he had been in the cab on the way to the hot springs).  But the perpetual blush in the Japanese man’s cheeks whenever he met eyes with his guest told Victor that he was not free of the thoughts of the night they met, either.

“Wow!” Victor sighed as he stretched his arms into the air, eager to break the silence as he examined the room.  It felt even tinier than it was thanks to his things, but that could be rectified when Victor got around to unpacking.  “What a traditional room.”

“Sorry it’s so small.  It was the only one we had available.” Yuri smiled, doe eyes gazing up and meeting Victor’s.  Tension was present in every muscle of the dark-haired boy’s body, though Victor wasn’t sure why.  Yuri didn’t seem the type to be this nervous before, even without the aid of alcohol.  In an attempt to put him at ease, Victor winked.

“You seem anxious,” he said with his usual grace, deciding the best way to remove the awkwardness in the room was by slapping it in the face.  “If it’s the coaching fees you’re worried about, we can discuss them later.  I’ll bill you after we win.”

That didn’t seem to work; in fact, Yuri’s face seemed to grow more pallid at that declaration while he muttered a quick ‘thanks’ in response.  Victor didn’t seem that much like a shark, did he?  He should stop trying to talk when he was sleep-deprived.

Regardless of what common sense dictated, he could feel his excitement build with each moment spent in Yuri’s company.  He was chubbier than he had been--something that mostly showed in his small potbelly hidden under a thick sweater, but manifested in his cheeks as well.  They were much more round, much like his eyes when he got particularly embarrassed, and logic would dictate that bigger cheeks meant a bigger blush.  Eager to pick up where they left off, Victor went to test the theory.

“So,” he said, his own heartbeat quickening as he took a step towards Yuri and gazed down at him with a mischievous glint in his eye.  “Yuri.  Tell me about yourself.”  The lack of sleep emboldened him, and he found his hand reaching up to touch the underside of the skater’s slackened jaw as he continued  “What sort of rink do you skate at?  What’s here in the city?”  He paused for a moment, trying to keep his voice smooth as he continued, an unappealing reason for Yuri’s distance coming to mind.  “Is there a girl you like?”

Yuri was silent, pink creeping into his flesh as he absorbed the contact with an expression that contained an interesting mix of horror, reverence, and confusion.  Unable to hide a grin at the sight, Victor ran a hand down the length of his student’s arm, heart rattling in his chest as he wrapped his fingers around Yuri’s hand; it was softer than he remembered, and Victor found his thumb move across it unconsciously, savoring the sensation of skin on skin  

“Before we start coaching, let’s get to know each other,” Victor all but purred, hoping the warmth from his voice would melt the ice; he much preferred that to breaking it.  “Build some trust in our relationship.”

Their breaths mingled together as Victor lured Yuri’s face closer to his own, the other’s eyes clouded as he stared.  A moment passed between them, the quiet of the room wrapping around them like a blanket; Victor’s pulse pounded in his ears as the entirety of Yuri’s face changed color at the proximity.  Victor had missed this.

Before anything could progress, Yuri’s expression changed dramatically, clarity returning to him as he pulled himself away without warning.  All but throwing himself back against a nearby wall, the young man took a deep breath to calm himself.  The sudden movement was nearly painful, the void where Yuri’s hand had been tucked in Victor’s overwhelmingly apparent.

“Why are you running away?” Victor asked, unable to hide his surprise.  It didn’t seem to help the color in Yuri’s cheeks, still a deep scarlet, as he stuttered a response.

“Uh, n-no reason…”

Disappointment started to trickle into Victor’s gut, slowly killing the butterflies that had taken residence there for the last few moments.  There was certainly a lot more Victor had to learn about sober Yuri, that was for sure.

The night found Victor in bed alone, Makkachin wrapped dutifully around him as he sniffled, reeling from a strange mix of feelings that were too thoroughly muddled to place.  It was dark, light from the hallway pushing weakly through the door.  There were many things that felt off about this moment--the stacks of brown boxes that seemed to loom over him.  The firmness of the futon that wasn’t his.  The tears that gathered in the corners of his eyes.  He would blame exhaustion from the long day of travel for his inability to keep his emotions in check, but even he wasn’t sure how true that was at this point.

Of course, Victor was not the type of person to hold anyone to things they might have said and done months ago, let alone ideas concocted while under the influence of alcohol.  The Russian had a habit of forgetting things, and it had gotten him into trouble many a time.  Tomorrow, Victor would wake up and be ready to get to work, allowing his professionalism to outweigh whatever personal investment he might have had in coming here.  But tonight, it was impossible not to let disappointment get the better of him.  As a tear rolled down his cheek, Victor grabbed Makkachin’s ear and used it to wipe away the evidence of his renegade sentimentality.  Dogs were much more multipurpose than some people realized.

A buzz brought him out of his pity party, and Victor squinted his eyes against the new light source in the room as his phone screen lit up.  Probably a text from Chris, he thought as he pushed himself onto his elbows; Makkachin didn’t appreciate the movement, giving Victor a convincing look of betrayal before snuggling up against his chest.  As his eyes met the glowing text, his breath caught in his throat.

It was from Yuri.  He had finally responded.

As his heartbeat quickened, Victor felt the familiar shake of his hands that seemed to come with any news regarding his crush.  The Russian tried to keep his expectations in check--being an adult man of 27 meant that Victor was all too aware that life rarely worked out how you wanted to, and this was from someone who got to dance on ice for a living--but his body still hummed with excitement at the prospect of new perspective on their situation.

After what felt like hours, Victor drew in a breath and tapped his Touchbook app.

It read:  _ Sorry, I didn’t see this until now. _

Ah, reality.  You were so cruel.  So succinct.  Victor brought a hand to his face, struggling with whether or not he should respond; his new student felt a bit like a deer, scampering off at the first sign of trouble.  It was a defense mechanism, Victor was starting to realize, and possibly the reason why Yuri was less than talkative earlier.  Still, it felt like something more should be said, but the Russian wasn’t sure what he could say at this point.  Three dots appeared below the single sentence response, cool relief filling his lungs as he inhaled.  With little patience, he waited for the continuation.

_ I’m sorry, I still don’t know what to say.  I’m just a little shell-shocked to have you here. _

A smile painted itself on Victor’s lips as a small pang of what felt like fear moved through his stomach; so Yuri was a fan.  Victor had thought that might be the case when he watched some of Yuri’s other work on YouTube, seeing the similarities in his choreography and the way the Japanese skater approached his jumps, but it was nice to have it confirmed.  It made Victor feel a little more wanted, which eased the whirlpool of thoughts in his head.

_ ‘Thank you’ will do just fine for now. ;) _

Victor’s response was teasing, unable to hide that part of himself no matter how hard he tried.  The return was quicker this time, a small green dot next to Yuri’s name implying that he was also carefully watching the window.

_ Of course.  Thank you, Mr. Nikiforov. _

_ None of that, please.  Victor. _

_ Right.  Victor.  I knew that.  I just… didn’t know if you were okay being referred to that way.  It feels disrespectful. _

A small laugh escaped the coach, a single syllable punched out into the night, illuminated only by the sickly white glow of his phone. 

_ I think we’re a little beyond worrying about being on a first name basis, Yuri. _

_ I didn’t want to assume… _

_ Please, feel free to.  I’m pretty easygoing.   _

_ Okay.  I’ll do my best, Victor.   _

The conversation reached a natural lull, which implied that they were at a crossroads.  A lack of dots implied that Yuri was not planning on adding to his response, which meant that it was Victor’s responsibility to drive the discussion forward.  There were two options he could go with--the first being the more personal route, where he could attempt to ask more about Yuri.  The second was calling it quits for the night and seeing where tomorrow took them.  As much as Victor would have loved to stay up late to text with his new, shy friend, it was time for the more responsible choice.  It also posed less risk of Victor overstepping any invisible boundaries that Yuri had placed between the two of them, which were more numerous than the medalist was expecting.

_ Well, as much as I’d like to chat more, I think we should probably get some sleep.  I’ll see you tomorrow?  First day!! _

_ Ah, yeah.  Looking forward to it. _

 

*   *   *

 

The next morning found Victor early, close to 6am.  Despite the short duration of his sleep, the Russian felt refreshed, eyes all but popping open when he regained consciousness.  It was Christmas Day, as far as Victor was concerned; any disappointment he might have felt the day before was far outweighed by the sheer amount of joy flooding into him at the idea of something new.  While Victor traveled all over the world for competitions, he hardly got much of an opportunity to get to know any of the places he visited.  Staying for more than a couple days would mean he’d get to find every speck of detail in this completely unfamiliar territory.  He would have a new rink.  A new favorite restaurant.  A new park for Makkachin to play in.  Victor wouldn’t have the option to fall into old habits.  And though the medalist prided himself on his spontaneity, it was fairly easy for him to fall into a routine when it came to specific parts of his life (pardon the pun). 

Most importantly, he’d now have a student.  One that was probably not as awake as he was.  With a sigh, Victor realized he had quite a bit of time to burn before it was reasonable to expect the other to be up, so the Russian kicked off his blanket and slipped into the darkness to find food, the twilit sky not yet touched by the sun.

Finding the kitchen with little difficulty, Victor was surprised to find that he wasn’t alone at this hour, his new protege already poking around cabinets as he decided what to do with himself.  

“You’re up early,” the medalist remarked cheerfully, his partner freezing when he recognized the voice.  As Yuri recovered, he smiled, apprehension tugging at the corners.

“I… had trouble sleeping,” he admitted, monolids betraying a fair hint of puffiness.

“Too excited?” Victor hopefully projected his emotions onto his student, who found an interesting spot on the ground as he nodded.

“And nervous,” he admitted, though the Russian was surprised to find that the trademark blush was absent.  It was a small confession, but Victor appreciated the honesty.  He rewarded it with a smile, unable to keep his hand from resting itself on Yuri’s shoulder.  As he gently squeezed, he felt tension; Yuri’s eyes were still not able to meet Victor’s for long.

“There’s nothing to be nervous about,” Victor chirped, eager to soothe the tightly wound doe.  He knew better than anyone that most of his job was nothing but confidence-building, a nasty set of nerves almost more deadly to a performance than an injury (more often than not, one was the cause of the other).  With a pat, he added, “I’m here for a reason--remember that.  Once we get you back down to a healthier size, that’s when the real fun is going to start.”  Victor remembered the topic of Yuri’s weight gain had come up yesterday, but his brain was so foggy from the sheer amount of time he’d been awake that he couldn’t remember exactly what he said.  The Russian knew he had a habit of being a little too… “playfully _ ”  _ honest, one that reared its ugly head when he was sleep deprived or drunk.  It wasn’t a bad idea for Victor to try and be a little less… dickish about the issue.  “I just don’t feel comfortable with you skating at the level you need to right now.  Those extra pounds murder your joints, believe me.”   

“Yeah… I understand,” Yuri seemed to handle this approach well enough.  “My first and last name might as well be Pork Cutlet for how much I’ve been eating it lately.”

Victor encouraged the timid joke with a chuckle, Yuri’s face brightening at the idea that he could make the Russian laugh.  “I can’t blame you, Piggy.  They’re quite tasty.”

A private smile played at the Japanese skater’s lips as he opened up the french doors on the stainless steel fridge, pulling out a small bowl filled with a collection of different, brightly colored berries.  Victor was certain he had quite the undignified look on his face when he spotted a particularly ripe blueberry resting atop the pile.  They were one of his favorite foods, and nearly a myth in Russia around this time of year.

“So,” Victor paused as he stole it, Yuri completely unbothered by the heinous crime that had been committed right in front of his eyes.  “What sort of training regimen were you on before?”  As he chewed the morsel, his hands went for the fridge, stomach reminding him with a growl that it was hungry.  After a moment, the Russian realized that rooting through other people’s things might be considered rude, even in his own country, and he poked his head out from behind it to address his host.  “Is it okay if I use your kitchen?”

Popping a grape into his mouth, Yuri nodded as he turned to lean against the counter, watching Victor with genuine interest.  His response was choppy, distracted.

“Um, mostly cardio.  I took ballet a few times a week before, not so much recently.  Didn’t find a teacher I liked much in Detroit.”

The medalist caught the other’s eyes for a moment before ducking his head back into the fridge to hide the heat in his face, muttering out a quick, “Okay, good” to acknowledge the information.  An avocado sat on the shelf with silent invitation; Victor’s blue eyes flashed in excitement as he reached for it, grabbing two eggs from the carton on the shelf with his other hand.  Closing the door with his elbow, he dropped his small collection of food items on the counter next to the oven.  A cursory search revealed where the Katsukis stored their flatware and cutting boards, but Victor was unable to find a baking pan.

“Do you have something I can bake this in?”  Victor’s hands mimed the shape of one poorly.  A moment later, the desired object was handed to him, Yuri’s cheeks pink as his eyes lingered on the oven more than they should have.  

“What temperature do you need it at?” He asked, turning to the appliance to avoid meeting the other’s gaze.  Victor didn’t know if he should feel flattered.  With the final pieces in place, Victor grabbed a knife and spoon from their homes before turning to his work.

“Two hundred,” he responded as he sliced the avocado in half, scooping a small amount of the flesh out and eating it off the spoon.  Placing it on the pan, Victor cracked one of the eggs and poured the contents with great care into the void where the pit had been.

“Anyway.” The segue was awkward, but effective.  A sprinkle of salt, a dash of pepper, and then Victor continued his process with the other half.  “We could get an early start on training, since we’re up.  Why don’t you show me around the city?  It’ll be a nice walk, and when the rink opens we can head over to check it out.  Wouldn’t be a bad idea to run there, actually.”

“There’s not a whole lot in Hasetsu to see,” Yuri admitted with a half shrug, watching Victor tuck the results of his efforts into the oven.  The Russian moved to lean against the countertops next to his Asian friend, who was unsure how to react to their propinquity.  After a moment, a shy smile flickered at his mouth again, brown eyes reflecting the early notes of dawn as he met Victor’s glance with some hesitation.  “But sure.  I’d be happy to.”

The medalist savored the sight, a hairline fracture cracking his heart as he attempted to commit the moment to memory.  It hadn’t taken long for Victor to realize that his new student was much more withdrawn than he ever could have imagined, but getting to know him was somehow more fun this way.

 

*   *   *

 

Another thing about Yuri that Victor was quick to discover was that he was not the strongest communicator, the boy opting for passionate denials, single-syllable answers or hapless stuttering instead of clarifications when it came to a topic he wasn’t particularly comfortable discussing.  The list of Subjects Yuri Katsuki Felt Weird About seemed remarkably full, spanning everything from his childhood to his skating career.

Their trek into the city had not led them very far, mostly along the beach until they stumbled across a nearby fish market, the fresh catches from the morning’s expeditions laid out on wooden platforms in pleasing arrangements.  Victor decided to buy a few for Yuri’s parents as a gift, with his host acting as a translator, wanting to spread his good mood to as many people as he could.  He was also selfishly hoping that if he bought them, he would have the opportunity to eat them as well, the salty smell that lingered in the vicinity of the vendors making him salivate.

As the fishmonger wrapped up the three massive salmon he had chosen, Victor turned to his shy guide, sidling up to Yuri with uncharacteristic timidity as he bumped into him playfully with his shoulder.  A noise escaped the Japanese man at the contact, more surprise than anything, followed by a nervous laugh.  The Russian’s heart cracked just a bit more at the sight of the smiling profile beside him.

“What’s your favorite fish?” The Russian hoped this was not one of the subjects on The List Of Things That Made Yuri Uncomfortable (the title was a work in progress), though if it were, he would be quite interested in Yuri’s apparently sordid past.  He imagined what it would be like to be haunted by the memories of fish, doomed to blush for eternity anytime he went to the supermarket.  In his musings, he nearly missed the answer, and the easy smile that came with it.

“Probably eel.”  Yuri had hardly finished the declaration before Victor found the tank containing them, peering in and pointing out the largest one to the proprietor to add to his order.  This alarmed Yuri, but Victor was hardly surprised.  “E-Eh?!  Are you sure?”

“Of course!  Consider it a celebratory gift.”  While nothing had gone according to plan yet, there was still plenty to revel in, and Victor was prone to carouse.

“I guess so…” came the cautious reply, a pause solidifying a plan in response.  “I’ll make dinner for us, then.”

“Really?!” Victor’s brows crawled up his forehead in surprise.  “You know how to cook them?”

“Of course,” Yuri smiled, eyes squinting at the corners as he beamed; Victor knew it was because he had impressed the Russian, and Victor couldn’t stop his own smile in return.  Yuri was being openly friendly.  Maybe he was exhausted.  Or… maybe this was working.  “It isn’t too complicated.  The hardest part is killing and skinning it, honestly.”

There was no way of knowing what he looked like, but Victor felt his face contort, smile widening in horror as he processed the words that had so sweetly left the other’s mouth.

“What.”

Yuri didn’t hear him; he was too busy accepting the plastic bag containing water and the very live eel, who pushed itself against the sides with agitation.  In an attempt to collect himself, Victor handed over his card to pay, attempting to rearrange his facial expression into something that would more convincingly hide his  _ utter disgust at the fact that he was now responsible for a live eel. _

As he turned back, Victor kept his eyes fixated on Yuri’s face before coming up with a plan.   _ Don’t look at the eel don’t look at the eel don’t loo--  _ “Let’s head back.  I can carry the salmon if you hold onto…”

He nodded at the creature in Yuri’s hands, its jailor seemingly unbothered by the fact that he was holding a horrifying undersea monster.  Yuri agreed, much to Victor’s relief, and the two made their way to the onsen as the sun crawled higher into the brightening sky.  Nervous glances were stolen again, but this time it was Victor staring at the squirming beast in the other’s hands.  A blush creeped across his nose as a thought crossed his mind.

“Should we name it?” he sounded almost painfully innocent as he asked, completely unfamiliar with the experience of meeting his food before he ate it.

“What?” Yuri laughed, bringing the bag up to eye level to examine the eel, Victor’s stomach turning as its dead eyes met the skater’s.  “No, that’s silly.”

Guilt prickled the hairs on Victor’s arms.  “It really doesn’t bother you?”

Shrugging, Yuri lowered his prisoner, his shapely legs still matching Victor’s longer stride.  “Not really.  I’ve helped in the kitchen my whole life.  The first one was gross, but I don’t mind it so much anymore.  It’s food.”  He paused, mostly to process what Victor’s reaction implied.  “Have you never gutted or cleaned a fish?”  

Now it was Victor’s turn to blush as he felt the question needle into him, forcing out a confession.

“I… don’t… I don’t really cook.”  Sheepishly, Victor grinned, blue eyes flicking to meet the surprised look on the other man’s face. 

“What do you eat?” Yuri seemed unable to comprehend the Russian’s truth.

“I mean, I can do simple things.  Breakfast stuff is easy to make.  Anything beyond that and I’m kinda helpless.”

“Huh.”  The five-time World Champion and Olympian felt insecure.  It felt wrong, like a coat with sleeves that stopped just above the wrist.

“Please rest assured that my ability to cook won’t affect your coaching whatsoever.”

“If you say so,” came the dubious reply, the smile on Yuri’s lips taking away the sting of the bite.  Victor supposed he deserved that after the ‘Piggy’ comment.

The walk back was shorter than Victor remembered, the time passing in conversation peppered with laughter.  There was definitely more of a distance between them now than at their first meeting, maintained for what could have been a multitude of reasons--Regardless of why things weren’t as friendly medalist might have hoped, the two of them were slowly finding their footing around each other, a relaxed atmosphere settling around them as they continued to speak.

When they arrived and Yuri put their purchases away, Victor felt exhaustion start to catch up with him as Makkachin greeted them enthusiastically, unused to such brutal waking hours.  His student must have noticed, because Yuri charitably suggested that he could go limber up at the ballet studio before they made their way to the rink, and Victor could take that time to sleep if he wanted to.  A bleary-eyed smile came in response, and the Russian was back in the futon less than a minute later.  Months later, Yuri would confess that in actuality, he needed time to discuss what the hell was going on with  _ somebody _ , the excitement and nerves at having someone he so deeply respected in the same room as him building to a boiling point.  But for now, Victor would take it for the gift that it was.  Within a few moments of his head hitting the pillow, he was unconscious, sweet sleep doing its reparative work.

 

*   *   *

 

“Was ballet productive?”

Victor asked the question to break the quiet that had settled between them, and to make his student’s workout a little more bearable.   Yuri’s face was intense, dotted with sweat as he blew through his reps, pushing past his labored breathing with a laser-sharp focus.  He regarded Victor’s question with partial interest, glancing down at the man seated on the bench beside him as he continued with his step-ups.

“Yeah, Minako seems pretty excited,” came the winded reply.  Confused, Victor cocked his head.

“Who?”

“Oh, right.  Sorry.  Minako is a ballet instructor,” Yuri replied, eyes locked straight ahead.  The information conjured vague images of a long-haired woman Victor had been introduced to the night before, exhaustion clouding the memory.  To Victor’s surprise, the explanation continued.  “She used to travel the world as a dancer.  When I was younger, I spent more time in her ballet class than at home.  I even started skating because Minako urged me to.  She always cheered me on, but she likes to meddle, too.”

There was no hint of anything in Yuri’s face aside from determination--maybe the physicality had distracted his brain enough to keep it from interjecting in the conversation, allowing the young man to keep talking without flushing from embarrassment.  Victor went to test the theory, shoving hard into personal territory.

“Do you have feelings for Minako?” He asked with a grin.  This caused the athlete to stop, squatting down to finally look Victor in the eye as he came in with a quick denial.

“What?  No way!”  Yuri’s face was free of pink, but his adamant response implied a bit of a sore spot on this topic.  Feeling bold, Victor pushed the boundary a bit farther.

“Are you with anyone?”  Victor hoped against hope that his face didn’t betray half the hopefulness he felt.  There was the blush, the color blooming like watercolors on Yuri’s skin.

“No.”

Holding back the sigh of relief at this news was one of the most difficult things Victor had done in his life; he conveniently ignored the implication that his life really wasn’t that hard.  The look Yuri had on his face resembled a dog that had been denied table scraps, shallow guilt and sadness at what he lacked etched on his features.  Empowered with the knowledge that he had no competition, Victor’s face brightened as he enthusiastically continued the interview.

“Any exes?” An unnecessary question, but since the door was open, Victor might as well see if he could get the other to gossip about any past partners.  The blush deepened.

“No comment.” He muttered, the quietness of his voice implying a deeper explanation.  It was frustrating to let it lie, but Victor did; he’d made great progress in that exchange, and could hardly expect Yuri to surrender everything about himself right off the bat.  As Victor had quickly surmised from their short amount of time together, Yuri was much more shy than he had ever imagined.  But it made every extended exchange feel that much sweeter, the information he retrieved more precious. 

As thanks, Victor tried to turn the subject away from his student’s love life to focus on his own; he hoped that it would take some of the pressure off of Yuri, and everyone loves a good ex story.  The skater proved him wrong, drawing a thick line between them as he shouted a quick “Stop!” before Victor could get carried away in his narrative.  

Back to square one, then.

A sigh escaped Victor as he leaned forward, placing his elbows on his thighs so he could rest his head in his hands.  Damn.  He tried to imagine what a first date with Yuri Katsuki must be like, the conversation bubbling with fervent denials.  If it was anything like their first meeting, she’d ask, “Where are you from?”  He would run away.  To Yuri’s credit, he was still here, despite all of Victor’s overzealous prodding.  But the silence that hovered after Yuri’s abrupt end to the conversation was awkward.

Makkachin was the one who spoke first, her barks coming from behind as she alerted them to the presence of a squirrel that was most definitely a threat to their safety.  They turned in unison, and Victor’s eyes fell on a large structure resting at the top of the hill behind them.  He had seen it before, as it was hard to miss; it looked ridiculously Japanese, the edges of its tiered rooftop curling up at the corners, but it lacked a presence of age.  

“Yuri, what’s that castle over there?” The Russian asked, mostly for the sake of having something to say… but he  _ was  _ curious.

“Oh, that’s Hasetsu Castle,” His host replied casually.  His hands moved into a bizarre pose, something that Victor was only able to recognize as ninjutsu-related because of Plisetsky’s “Naruto” phase.  There was a facetious intensity in Yuri’s voice as he continued, the tiniest hint of his drunken boisterousness poking out from the few holes Victor had poked through the Asian’s defenses. “Inside is a ninja house.”

“Really?!  Ninjas?!”  Victor would never admit he forgot that they were real.  But he had.  And he was so excited to be reminded that he insisted that Yuri take a photo him and his pooch in front of it to share on Twitter.  Little did he know that this selfie would set into motion the tiniest, most deadly tornado of blond hair and angry green eyes the world would ever see.  But it wasn’t here yet, and so the day continued blissfully on.

Eel was served over rice that night for dinner; Victor had not been present for the preparation, but he still felt a fair amount of guilt tug at his guts at the sight of the textured, saucy meat.  He knew what it had looked like in life.  Well, he knew what most of his food looked like before it was dead, but it he had never nearly been on a first-name basis with any of his protein before.

His remorse was not strong enough to hinder the taste, however.  And damn, did it taste good.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter brought to you by Daya's "Cool", which I can't stop listening to.
> 
> We're finally here!! Happy Victor is so much more fun to write. Prepare yourselves for a buttload of cute, silly, domestic shit from here on out. They'resocuteIlovethemsomuchugh 
> 
> As always, thank you for reading and commenting! It always makes my day to see that people enjoy something I write to amuse myself. I'll try and have the next chapter out to you in the next two weeks!


	9. Interruption

There was a quiet comfort in seeing Yuri smile, how it inched and melted across his face like timid lava, the heat burning into Victor.  He was close, brown eyes looking up into blue, silver fringe perpetually in the way.  The Russian heard a voice, but could not make out the words--the textures, black and gold with streaks of blue and purple, implied that it was Yuri’s.  His lips moved with little hesitation, and Victor wished he knew what he was saying, but a moment later it didn’t matter.  The shorter man’s arms were thrown around his coach’s neck, his forearms bleeding warmth into the surface of Victor’s skin.

The world shifted into watercolors, the lines between the two of them blurring with veering hues.  While they had started on their feet, they were in bed now, laying on the beige blankets and dutifully watched by jointed, long-necked lamps on either side.  Pillows surrounded them, dust-colored and soft, protecting them from the darkness that tried to creep in through the window.  Yuri’s arms were still fastened around the medalist’s neck, the length of his body stretched out alongside Victor’s.  An infuriating inch of space existed between them; unfazed by the change in his environment, Victor wrapped his arms around the other man’s ribs as he buried his face in the crook of Yuri’s neck, inhaling a blank scent.  Returning the energy, the Asian nuzzled into the other’s chest, moving one hand down the Russian’s spine, his fingertips tracing every curve of muscle through his thin black shirt.  

And then… their motion stopped, bliss freezing the moment to allow Victor to savor it.  The steady pressure of Yuri’s breath against him was comforting; it reminded Victor that Yuri was alive, that he was his own person and yet he had chosen to spend his time with Victor in this way.  He had come to Victor for comfort, and Victor was eager to oblige.  Eager to be wanted.  Eager to be needed.  He sighed, contentedness moving one of his hands to cup the back of Yuri’s skull, pressing his face gently into his collarbones.

This speck of time was very full, the warmth that had spread through Victor pushing down into his bones, a foreign feeling radiating off of his flesh.  His skin seemed to hum where it met Yuri’s, a tuneless song that was beautiful all the same.

With a smile, he curled his fingers around Yuri’s soft hair as he took a deep breath to heave a happy sigh.

As he exhaled, he woke up, the grin that was still on his lips short-lived.

Oh, no.

His bed was empty; even Makkachin was nowhere to be found, the shoji that was slightly ajar all the evidence he needed to prove that she had left him sometime in the night.  The window behind him betrayed the sickly yellow color of the sky as it warmed with dawn.  Though the blanket was over his shoulders, Victor was unable to shake the chill that had infected him upon waking.

The dream had felt so real.  So vivid.  He’d had similar ones before, but not with anyone real, and never quite so intense.  Things never proceeded past hugging, but at times, that was everything the Russian wanted.  The comforting serenity of it only made him feel lonely when he regained consciousness.  Despite his body’s singing, still wrapped in the pleasant aura of the fantasy, Victor felt… incomplete, a sensation that he was certain he wouldn’t be able to shake for the rest of the day.

Another sigh left him, this one much more despondent as he got out of bed to find his dog, who apparently also wanted to start the day with Yuri cuddles and had pushed her way into his bedroom.  The two were sound asleep, the pooch tucked securely under Yuri’s arm.  Victor had half a mind to join them, but knew better; as he turned to find his way to the kitchen, a small ache made itself known in his chest.  The Russian would never violate anyone’s boundaries like that, but damn.  Makkachin was a lucky girl. 

As Victor finished with breakfast in the kitchen, Yuri shuffled in, greeting him with a nod and a generous yawn.  Returning the smile, the Russian made his way to the door.

“I’m going to head over to the rink now,” he said over his shoulder as he rested a hand on the frame.  “I’ll see you there later?”

“Oh, I can come with you,”  Yuri said, stretching his arms languidly into the air.  His shirt pulled up, the hint of pale skin a stark contrast to the waistband of his black pants.  Victor tried not to notice.  “Just let me get changed.”

“It’s fine,” the Russian quickly dismissed the idea.  “Take your time.  Working on an empty stomach is a bad idea.”  Taking a few steps back into the kitchen, Victor reached for a bowl of apples resting on the counter near the fridge, grabbing a red delicious from the top of the pile.  With as cheerful a grin he could manage, he passed it off to his student, who rubbed sleep away from his eyes with his other hand.  “Ciao for now!”

Yuri’s nose wrinkled; it was a habit he had when he was tired or sleepy, Victor had noticed.  What he was wrinkling his nose at was anyone’s guess--the silly farewell, being left behind, eating an apple, or simply being awake and needing to pay attention to another person.  

It had been a week since the medalist’s arrival in Hasetsu, the time quickly consumed by grueling workout plans as Yuri pushed hard to get back into shape.  The city had almost started to become familiar to Victor, the bike ride from the Yu-Topia onsen to the Ice Castle Rink so routine that he went nearly the whole way without questioning his sanity or sense of direction more than once or twice.  Victor arrived as it opened, the sole male member of the Nishigori family there to greet him as he was chaining his borrowed bike outside of the entrance.

As his skates made contact with the ice, he felt the warmth from the dream slide off his skin, fought off by the chill of the rink and the focus on his work.  After a few laps to warm up, Victor folded his legs, bending the left as he swooped the right out to get enough momentum to launch himself into a triple loop; he all but flew through the air, getting an unusual amount of height, and his stomach lurched into his throat for a moment when he began his descent.  The Russian landed it with no issue, as per the norm.

The hours passed, the noise in the rink growing as the handful of employees that were scheduled to work trickled in to complete their tasks for the day.  Victor didn’t bother to check the time as it went, continuing to run through the routine he had originally choreographed for himself in Russia.  It wouldn’t be long before Yuri was at his ideal weight, and when that happened, the coach needed to be ready.  Waiting too long to begin rehearsals and jump planning would put them at a significant disadvantage, especially before they knew where Yuri was going to be assigned for the qualifying competitions.

It was a sensual routine, one that Victor made some changes to when he realized it was going to a different recipient.  He wasn’t above admitting that those alterations were done for mostly selfish reasons, but the medalist felt that the programs he had previously seen in Yuri’s repertoire lacked a strong commitment to anything outside of his narrow comfort zone.  While the Asian’s interpretation was second to none, there wasn’t much challenge in what he was doing.  Pushing him outside of what he knew made it impossible for Yuri to rest on his laurels.  If Victor was unable to fall back on old habits, neither was his student.

His mouth hung slightly agape as he worked through the choreography again, feeling a change in his stamina after much of his time dedicated to physical pursuits was spent watching Yuri as opposed to participating.  Whoops.  No matter, his student would be here soon and he’d get to take break then to go over their plan for the day.  As he landed from a triple axel, his hands cut through the air, circling around his head and running through his hair as he spun luxuriously on the ice. 

Hm.  No good.  He was all elbows like that.  Coming to a stop, Victor brought his fingers to his chin, completely unbothered by the remaining momentum that continued to push him forward along the frosty surface.

“Well you look like you’re doing great, Victor!”

An unexpected voice smacked him over the head from the barrier.  He was right--Yuri  _ was  _ arriving soon.  It just wasn’t the Yuri he was expecting.  

 

*   *   *

 

“So I guess I’m supposed to choreograph two programs now,” Victor shrugged as he finished his retelling of the afternoon, upturning the last of his sake into his mouth before bringing his glass down to the surface of the counter that separated him from his conversation partner.

“Kids will hold you to anything you say,” Minako remarked with a shrug, leaning heavily on a single hip as she folded her arms across her chest.  “You’ll do well to remember that.”

“Duly noted,” the Russian chuckled, ducking his head in embarrassment as his eyes wandered.  Nervously, he reached down to ruffle Makkachin’s ears, his girl seated faithfully on the ground beside his rotating stool.

It was somewhere around 8 or 9pm, and Victor had taken to wandering the streets of Hasetsu in search of his student.  Mari’s first suggestion was Minako’s place, and Victor had carefully followed the vague directions she had given (and he could only partially understand) only to find that the instructor was alone.  Upon his arrival, she had offered him a drink to warm him up, and Victor wasn’t so rude as to turn down free alcohol.  The poodle seemed eager to get off the streets as well.

As to why he had been so motivated to find Yuri, Victor couldn’t say.  Perhaps it was the ardor from the dream that stayed in a thin film on his skin, the juxtaposition of his more distanced actuality mocking him for being so alone in a foreign country.  It wasn’t as though Victor was homesick, but he missed the easiness of social interaction at home… and yet, he had left one of his familiars back at the onsen to seek out the one major source of tension in his life.  Victor, it seemed, was a glutton for punishment.

But Minako, as it turned out, was an excellent source of conversation.  She also seemed to be quite the drinker, if her liquor cabinet was any indication.  The instructor had let him into her home, shared her booze, and gracefully chatted with him about his students (the plural of the word made him swoon at how surreal his life was at the moment)--as far as Victor was concerned, he had made a valuable connection tonight, one he would be sure to keep in mind for any future evenings that he wanted to spend in the company of alcohol and adult friends.  No offense to either of the Yuris, but Victor was slowly becoming more and more aware of the age gap between him and his peers, and there were only so many times he could pretend Makkachin could understand him before it just became pitiful.

As he gazed around the dim, warm colors of Minako’s apartment, his eyes landed on a collection of photos hung carefully on the wall in the sitting area.  They had all been professionally taken, moments of productions frozen in time; Minako was featured in all of them, her face a kaleidoscope of makeup and expression.  In one, her legs were spread wide in a split that hovered above the ground, powerful legs flexed through the solid material of her dance tights; her face was serene and beautiful, eyes blacked out dramatically with dark powder, lips a blood-red heart.

“I had no idea Yuri was instructed by such a prolific woman,” Victor admitted.  He had mentioned that she had international success, but that tended to mean different things to different people.

“You’re too kind.” She brushed off the compliment, taking another sip of her drink as she took her turn to glance at the pictures.  Her eyes wavered for a moment.

“What made you stop?” Victor asked with genuine curiosity.  He had asked the question of many former performers, but most of them were still active in the competitive community in some way or another, which always made their answers feel less than sincere. 

“What makes anyone stop?  Age.”  She shrugged, adding with a small amount of bitterness.  “Certainly not family.”

Victor ignored the side comment, more surprised by the former admission.  “Age?  You’re not that old.”  Her dubious glance forced him to second-guess the comment.  “How old are you?”

“One doesn’t ask a lady these questions.”  Her tone had an edge of warning that may or may not have been entirely in good humor.

“Nonsense, you have nothing to be ashamed of.  You can’t be more than 40.”

She held a hand up, palm out.  “Please, that’s very flattering, but you  _ must  _ stop.”

“No!  Are you really older?”  Victor exchanged a look of shock with Makkachin, who seemed happily ignorant.

“Am I dead?  Have I died?  Can you hear what I am saying?”

“Are you… 50?”

“...You’re very lucky that Yuri Katsuki likes you, young man.”  What sounded like a vague threat to his life was ignored, the Russian opting to notice the other juicy information it revealed.  As he leaned forward, Makkachin brought her front paws up to rest in Victor’s lap, eagerly joining in with his wide-eyed excitement.

“Does he?”  The subject made a hard left, much to Minako’s relief.  The instructor raised an eyebrow as she smirked at Victor’s enthusiasm.

“He hasn’t told you?”  Victor visibly changed at the question, leaning his elbows heavily on the countertop as one of his hands pushed back his bangs.

“Getting him to talk about much of anything is… challenging.”  He sighed as he rubbed behind the poodle’s ear, bringing his eyes to meet Minako’s.  Her face was surprisingly sympathetic, one of the first instances where he was met with actual understanding when it came to his new protege.

“That’s our Yuri,” she laughed, the sound weighted with her own memories of teaching.  Leaning back against the glass hutch behind her, Minako folded her arms and continued.  “If he’s being tight-lipped about things, then I’ll keep what I know to myself.  But fear not, your job is safe.  He is a lot of things, but he is certainly not ambivalent when it comes to you.”

With a pout, Victor asked, “Would you have told me if I didn’t ask about your age?”

“Best to learn from the past rather than dwell on it.”  Her smile that followed implied his gut instinct was correct.

“Oh, well…”  He lamented, though it lacked any seriousness.  As his gaze shifted to the counter, it landed on the bottle of sake beside his hands.  A mischievous glint appeared in his eyes, supplemented with a grin as he suggested, “One more for the road?”

“...If you insist.”

It wasn’t long before they parted, the extra drink adding warmth to his cheeks and ears, protecting him against the chill; being used to weather in Siberia, there was little bite in it, but the relief was welcome all the same.  As he walked, he realized he felt much better after his chat.  The relief at having a normal conversation washed over him like a gentle tap.  Feeling reinvigorated, Victor initiated his fact-finding mission.  Minako’s slip had allowed Victor to realize that it was better to get to know Yuri through others’ eyes--good or bad, they were more likely to be honest about his character than he was.

The Russian’s shoes tapped impatiently on the concrete as he jogged up the stairs to the entrance, his pooch happily bounding alongside him.  He encountered no lock on the front door, though it was long past closing time.  Slipping into the space, he made his way to the office, where he found Yuko and Takeshi reviewing payroll information.  The space was clean, surfaces impossibly tidy.  A small library of books was tucked away on a built-in hutch and desk.  Machinery ran along the wall shared with the door he stood in, mostly temperature-related.  To his right was a long stretch of windows, affording a view of the ice that was second to none.  Sure enough, Yuri was there, left leg hovering as he mindlessly traced patterns on its surface.  His eyes were downcast, almost forlorn as his face relaxed in thought.

Victor smiled, leaning on the green doorframe as he knocked on it twice to let them know he was there.  They acknowledged him with surprise; the medalist wondered idly when people would stop being quite so shocked to see him.

“Hi, sorry to bother,” he flashed a smile, ducking into the room as he continued; Makkachin trotted up to the Nishigoris, eager to greet friends.  “I was looking for Yuri… Minako said I could find him here.”

Yuko chuckled as she patted the dog’s side, rising to look over at Victor.  “I’m surprised you even stopped there first.”

“He really comes that much?”  Victor couldn’t mask his surprise--he assumed that the instructor had been exaggerating previously.  Takeshi nodded, glancing out the window to watch the subject of their conversation.

“He’d always come here to practice skating.”

“It always made me think he really loved it,” Yuko chimed in, resting her elbows on the sill.  Beside her, Makkachin placed her front paws on the surface, ears perking as she spotted Yuri out on the ice.   “He didn’t even play with his friends.”

“Well, he was never very good at making them.  He’s not good at putting himself out there.”  Takeshi paused, folding his arms as he shook his head.  “...I don’t want this to be the end for him.”

“There’s nothing he hates more than losing,” the redhead chirped as she ran her nails along the pooch’s back.  

Victor paused, digesting the information.  It explained a lot about why Yuri had been behaving the way that he was--he was just painfully shy, not repulsed.  In truth, Victor had always known, but it was nice to hear it.  Even with the confirmation, Victor was a man, and no man was immune to giving into a  _ little _ spite once in a while; he reminded himself with a smile that if Yuri was set on hiding the playboy part of himself from the world, Victor would make him own it in a routine.  His index finger hovered over his lips as his eyes glinted in the dull light of the room.

“Thanks for your insight.”

A quick detour to the staff kitchen resulted in two cups of tea, the steam licking off the liquid’s surface as he muffled it with lids.  Thankful for his gloves, he carried the drinks out to the rink, resting them on the yellow surface of the barrier.  Makkachin waited back near the bleachers, the hallways warmer than the stadium.  At the sound of her clicking claws on the concrete, Yuri noticed the Russian quickly, hesitating for a moment before moving to greet his coach.  Victor pinched his cheeks in a smile, lips curling from the downturned point in the center.  

“Made you some tea.  You like oolong, right?”  He offered the tea like a branch, eager to show Yuri that he meant him no harm.  He’d seen beyond this shy exterior, and he wanted more than anything to see it again.  His dream played in his mind, warmth still ghosting on his arms at the memory as their solitude caught up with him.

Most of the time, Victor was able to maintain his professionalism when it came to his interest in his student.  However, there were moments much like the one that was currently playing out where Victor found he was unable to stop his heart from skipping a beat just to make it feel longer.  Yuri’s eyes remained on his as he smiled, pink playing at his cheeks as he thanked Victor for the drink.  Leaning forward, the Russian grabbed his tea before removing the lid, placing his elbows next to the other cup.  His own mug hovered beneath his nose; he inhaled the steam, throat warming.

“I can’t believe you’re still out here, honestly,” he murmured before gingerly taking a sip.  “Didn’t you get enough earlier?”  Yuri shrugged, grabbing his tea and pressing both hands against the cardboard.

“To be honest, I just… missed it.  I didn’t have much of an opportunity to practice alone before.  The rink in Detroit is much more public.”

Victor felt light headed from the sheer amount of syllables that had just left Yuri’s mouth.  He was speaking in complex sentences now!  The Russian felt as though they might be taking things too fast, now thoroughly acclimated to the slow pace things had been proceeding at previously.  He grinned at his own exaggeration, chuckling as he responded to the other skater.

“St. Petersburg is kind of the same.  We get private hours, but if we want extra time we have to spend it dodging people.”  He sipped at his tea, eyebrows raising as he focused on keeping the lidless liquid from spilling.  “It gets so tedious.”

Yuri’s face implied that Victor’s sarcasm had been lost in his deadpan delivery, and he grinned as he eagerly tried to save face.  “I’m joking, of course.”  The finalist laughed nervously as he pressed his face on the backs of his bare hands, warming them with his cheeks.

“I really do appreciate you coming here,” Yuri’s voice was a low hum in the air, the words quietly muttered away from their recipient.  “I just wanted you to know.  In case… you end up leaving with Yurio next week.”

An exhale sharply left Victor through his nose, confused smile playing at his lips.  

“Are you really that threatened by Yurio?” he asked, surprised by the fear inspired by someone 7 years his junior.  The other nodded sheepishly.

“He can be pretty threatening,” he admitted.

“I guess you’re right,” Victor supposed that if he had less blackmail material on his disgruntled peer (namely unpublished photos of growing out that terrible bowl cut he sported in his last season) he might be more intimidated by the tiny force of nature.  Victor smiled over his tea, making sure Yuri’s eyes met his before he spoke.  “For what it’s worth, I’m pretty happy I came here.”

The skater’s glance drifted, head nodding as he brought his oolong to his lips for a sip; perhaps the quiet response was to try and downplay the blush that painted his face... Or to hide his disbelief of the statement.

Pulling out his phone to check the time, the Russian found that it was nearing 10 o’clock.  Since he was now responsible for a second routine, he’d probably need to get a relatively early night so he’d be able to get up with enough time to figure out what the hell he was going to do for his new arrival.

“Well, I think I’m gonna head back to the onsen,” he said casually, jerking his head in the direction of the door he came in.  “Care to join me?  Or would you rather stay?”

“I’ll stay.”  Yuri’s eyes wandered into the cavernous ceilings of the rink, dark and high.  “I’m not quite ready to leave yet.”

“Just make sure you get enough sleep,” Victor said the advice convincingly, patting the barrier for emphasis.  He’d never follow it himself, but he figured as a coach he might as well try and pretend he was a good example.  “I’ll see you tomorrow for the assignments.  10am okay with you?”

“You’re the boss,” Yuri smiled with a nervous shrug, and Victor remembered that he was.  He wasn’t quite used to it, either.

“Right.  You’re right.”  The Russian wagged a finger at his student with mock threat before heading towards the exit.  “Then… 10am.  And not a minute later!”

Makkachin eagerly got to her feet as he passed her, the pooch trotting happily beside him as he trekked back to the hot springs.  The walk wasn’t bad, but the hour was late and it had been a long day.  He returned shortly after 10, heading straight to the public bathing area to rinse off before making his way up to his room, where the Russian Gremlin--sorry, Punk--waited impatiently.  The door opened, revealing Yurio in a rather unflattering position, sprawled across the small sofa against the wall.  As Victor stepped into the room, the junior flopped onto his belly, phone bouncing off the surface of the couch as he dropped it.

“You were a while,” Yurio remarked, top lip heavy to hide any annoyance in his voice.  It didn’t work, but Victor appreciated the effort.

“Just checking in with some people,” the coach replied with an infuriating amount of cheer.  A percussive sound escaped the blond’s mouth as he huffed.

“The pig, no doubt.”

“Yes, the Piggy was one of them,” Victor smiled as he sat on the loveseat across from Yurio, picking up the magazine that had been resting on the other cushion as he feigned interest in its contents.  This conversation was dangerously teetering on redundancy, something that bored Victor to tears; wasn’t the kitten happy enough with the fact that the medalist had agreed to go back if he “won” the impromptu competition they were hosting next week?  “Jealousy is unbecoming, you know.  Believe it or not, I have quite the active social life here.”

“Really?” Yurio looked unconvinced.  “How many friends do you have?”

“At  _ least  _ one.”

The kitten’s eyes flashed in anger as he pushed himself into a sitting position, legs splayed in nearly opposite directions.  “You don’t even know?!”

“I have to check with them first!”  The matter-of-fact reply prompted a look of confusion from Yurio, thin brows connecting over his nose as Victor laughed at the expression.  The junior was still growing, so it only made sense that his sense of humor was getting fine-tuned as well.  With a huff, the blond grabbed his phone, the flick of his thumb against the screen betraying his agitation.

“I just can’t believe you seriously came all the way out here for that pig,” Yurio muttered, keeping his eyes on the glow.  “Was all this really worth it?”

Victor smiled through the flare of irritation that came with the question; he had (perhaps foolishly) believed that his leaving had put an end to this nonsense, the constant barrage of doubt when it came to his life choices.  With Yurio’s arrival, he realized that he had only succeeded in getting out of earshot of them.  Sadness trickled through his shoulders and pooled in his chest when he discerned that the gossip had most likely reached a new extreme since he’d left, even outside of his own peer group.  Being an international icon tended to encourage unwanted opinions on all sides, and thankfully Victor had managed to dodge most of them.  Until now.

The senior drew in a breath, insincere (but utterly convincing) smile still painted on his face.  Pushing his fringe to the side with the back of his index finger, Victor gathered his thoughts before speaking.

“Look, I understand that being angry is part of your persona, but can you stop being openly hostile about this?” The tone the coach had adopted made it clear that it wasn’t a question.  Unused to the stern approach, Yurio blinked, bringing green eyes to meet blue.  “I know you’re mad at me, but what benefit is there to discouraging Yuri?  Or me, for that matter?”

Folding his legs, Victor rested his elbow on the armrest beside him, face still pleasant but a strong weight grounding his words as he continued.  This was the last time he felt like having this conversation.  “You can think that you’re better than him, but you don’t have to go out of your way to tell him or act like you’re the only one worth my time.  If it’s true, prove it.” He paused for a moment, letting the challenge settle.  “Otherwise, you’re just kicking him while he’s down.”

The corners of the kitten’s eyes tightened, small wrinkles taking root in his face.  Though he frowned deeply in response to the small lecture he’d been given, Yurio said nothing as he folded his arms tightly across his chest.  Makkachin, having tired of making her rounds at the onsen, pushed into the room, bouncing up to the junior enthusiastically as she pushed her head in his lap.  The dog broke some of the tension in the air, Yurio’s gentle fingers massaging circles at the corners of the poodle’s mouth.  Victor smiled; the boy was definitely more of a cat person.

“And while we’re on the subject,” Victor leaned forward, giving a hearty pat to Makkachin’s backside.  “Could you not… literally kick him?”  He paused for moment, adding an amendment.  “Unless he deserves it.  Either way, hurting him won’t help your chances that much, but it’s inconvenient for me.”

Yurio brought his eyes to Victor’s, glance still betraying a bit of hurt at his friendly scolding.  “What counts as him ‘deserving’ it?”

That was as close to a peace offering as the junior would ever get.  The senior grinned, doing his part to thin the tension between them.

“We’ll clear it on a case-by-case basis,” Victor grunted, getting to his feet.  “Anyway, let’s get to bed.  I don’t know how you’re still conscious, frankly.  Aren’t you tired?”

Yurio shrugged, and the coach briefly cursed the young.

“Well,  _ I’m  _ passing out.  I’ll be heading out early tomorrow, but I want the two of you on the ice and ready to go at 10.  Got it?”

With a grunt, the kitten waved a dismissive hand to let the other know he’d been heard before ducking into the small room attached to Victor’s.  To many, it was a glorified closet.  To Yurio, Victor thought with a grin, it was a perfect size.

Oooh.  He was sure to get hit for that one.  Good thing the gremlin didn’t read minds.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter brought to you thanks to the Repeat Song button and "Fingers" by the Seatbelts.
> 
> Eyyyy! Took the week off from editing my novel to work on this, which is much more fun and not crushingly depressing. Anyway, I hope you liked it, and I'll try and get at least one more chapter out this month! Thank you for reading and leaving your thoughts. I always enjoy reading them!


	10. Tumbling

Victor couldn’t stop the triumphant “VKUSNO!” that left his mouth after getting his first mouthful of Kyushu ramen since arriving in the region.  Only two days stood between him and the Onsen on Ice exhibition the town was planning; excited gossip rippled through Hasetsu, invented narratives of the two Yuris’ bloodthirsty rivalry passing eagerly behind discretionary palms placed to block the lips that spoke them.  Victor didn’t quite mind the factual inaccuracies--he thought they were funny, and if it added drama to the event, so be it.  It just made everything more fun.

Finishing off his second beer, the Russian glanced down at his bowl, which was still more than half full of noodles.  He was feeling good, his head starting to fuzz in that familiar way, the warmth of the beer pooling in the fold where his legs met his hips.  It was his body’s way of telling him that he was getting tipsy, a pleasant warning that he always ignored.  It had been a while since he’d last decided to go on a bender, the time that passed dulling the memories of the hangovers that would inevitably follow.  But he was almost comfortable living here in Japan now, having learned a modest handful of phrases and written characters, and while the Onsen was terrifically homey, there were only so many days that Victor could allow to pass with the same, repetitive home-jog-rink-home-bed approach.  In this case, the magic number was somewhere around 12.  The night was young.  The country was foreign.  And Victor was eager to get himself in a little trouble.

Victor had left the inn alone, with Katsuki and Plisetsky mournfully soaking in the springs.  Admittedly, he was grateful for the time to himself; while he was certain Yuri had his reasons for keeping his distance, it was impossible to deny that the Russian wasn’t a little frustrated, and that had reached its peak the night before when, at dinner, the Asian had proudly announced that his Eros--his sexuality, his lust, his sensual desires that had all been so prominently displayed the night that they met---was accurately described as… a Pork Cutlet Bowl.  Victor couldn’t help but laugh, because crying certainly wasn’t an appropriate response, but the man had limits to his patience, and he was looking to regenerate it with the healing powers of alcohol.

Another beer was ordered between mouthfuls of ramen, Victor’s skills with eating the stuff so underutilized that he couldn’t avoid a few small splashes on his shirt from broth as it flicked off the noodles on its way to his mouth.  Thank god he’d worn black.  The booze that quickly came washed away any sorrow he had about that, his thigh muscles feeling a little sore as the tipsy sensation spread out from his hips.  Victor noticed that he was leaning more heavily on his elbows as they rested on the counter, his food getting a mind of its own as it artfully avoided his mouth (or, more accurately, as he gracelessly failed in his attempts to shovel it in).  

After grabbing a fourth to go, Victor felt on top of the world.  He couldn’t help the grin that plastered itself on his face as he strolled through the dimly lit streets, thick wooden planks and pillars lining a row of street vendors.  Paper lanterns dangled from their corners, casting a weak, orange glow on the ground.  In this moment, as he stumbled over nothing in the road, Victor felt like a king.  It was such a stark contrast from how he was before he came here, his world monochromatic and bleak at the time.  Smile widening, he pulled out his phone and snapped a picture of himself, beer unsteady beside him as he held it next to his face.  He wanted to remember what this felt like.  Knowing how sadness settled into yourself was important to keep it at bay.  But taking time to treasure happy, simple moments only made them easier to find in the future.

It was on social media a moment later, the interactions pouring in from his followers shortly after.  Like most red-blooded humans, Victor enjoyed the validation he got from strangers on the internet, his exchanges with others on his pages making his never-ending goal to meet every human on the planet feel a little easier to attain.  But there was something impersonal about the likes and comments, and while the Russian had come out to get some time to himself, he couldn’t help but feel a little lonely at the shadows of human contact from his screen.

His drunken fingers moved of their own accord, opening up Touchbook and going to the chain of messages between him and his student, the last being the one they exchanged two weeks ago, the night Victor had first arrived.  The words stared back at him, next to a flat image of Yuri’s face giving him a close-mouthed smile.  It wasn’t wrong of Victor to assume Yuri didn’t use his social media, considering he hadn’t even posted about the Russian’s arrival.  His page was barren, the announcement of his international move resting comfortably atop a random photo of food from six months prior.  Victor assumed he would have been at least as important as the jalapeno poppers that his student ordered at a bar in Detroit, but he didn’t want to assume.

Yuri was a strange person.  Not strange in a negative sense, but in a way that took Victor a few extra seconds to decipher.  He was sweet, his kind nature covered thoroughly in shyness that had a habit of pushing people outside of his comfort zone; Victor had started to understand that more violent reactions were not driven by any actual negative feelings, but rather a deep embarrassment that made it difficult for him to let people in.  Dodging that reflex had become a little game.

After a few moments of staring at his open message thread, Victor clicked his home button, pushing aside the thought of bothering his socially challenged student.  It wouldn’t end well for either of them if Yurio found out that the senior was playing favorites, and ultimately, Victor wanted to retain an air of professionalism around the two of them.  His personal feelings for Yuri were not reciprocated at the moment, for whatever reason, and it was important that Victor not let them interfere with their work.  While Yuri was still having trouble with the quad Salchow, the Russian was quite pleased with the progress they’d made and was more interested in preserving that than following through on a crush.

The sighs that would occasionally plague him while watching Yuri rehearse couldn’t be helped, though.  Thankfully, the skater had yet to notice them.

It didn’t take him long to remember that there was no need for professionalism around Minako, however, and after fumbling with the Japanese phone he’d recently purchased, a message to her was quickly sent and returned.  As it turned out, she was enjoying the night as well, answering with a similar amount of additional vowels, exclamation points and typos.  She invited him to a local establishment with the promise of more booze, so like any sane man that was offered free alcohol, Victor made his way there as quickly as he could.

He was at her side as the hour crept closer to 9pm, a much harder drink waiting patiently on the bar’s black, granite surface.  It was dim, the light from the few recessed sources in the ceiling sucked into the dark wood that paneled the walls.  Ahead of them waited a wall of liquor, the bottles proudly reflecting any light they caught on their glassy surfaces.  A world of possibilities waited at the bottom of each one… though most of them were irresponsible.

“You’re hereeee!” Minako cried cheerfully, giving his shoulder a hearty squeeze as he took his seat on the stool next to her.  Her hand remained as she turned to the woman behind the counter, her customers at varying levels of sobriety.  “Hana!  This is the guy!”

The bartender turned to face them, her eyes thin and piercing beneath a mess of faded pink bangs.  The color complimented the nearly olive pigment of her skin.  A white diamond shyly greeted him above her top lip, a matching one tucked in the corner of her nose on the opposite side.  Her mouth pulled into a grin, slim lips disappearing in the gesture; it lessened her edge, the shape of her smile so appealing that it was difficult not to return.

“Hello, sir,” she said in perfect English, British accent betraying her worldly past.  As she extended a hand for a shake, a tattoo peeked out from under the right sleeve of her black blazer.  Victor took her hand, pleased to find her grasp was firm.  “Quite a pleasure to meet you.”

“Same here,” he said with his own smile, inebriation stretching it into something goofy and exaggerated.  “Especially if you’re giving me drink.  Is this my drink?”  A finger pointed at the beverage resting on the bar in front of him.

“Do you want it to be your drink?” Hana asked, smirk still playing at her mouth.  “It can be mine, I don’t mind.”

“No no no, that’s for my friend here,” Minako insisted drunkenly, the bartender’s sarcasm washed away with booze.

“I’m your friend?” Victor’s drunkenness took the declaration seriously, his eyes shining with unshed tears.  Another squeeze came from the hand that was still resting on his shoulder, the instructor meeting his eyes solemnly.

“You’re my friend.”  She was almost offended by his doubt.

“Glad I could help establish that,” Hana said, picking up a towel from behind the counter to throw over her shoulder.  “Let me know if you guys need anything!”

The tipsy duo nodded as she left, Victor reaching for his latest bad decision as Minako held hers out for a clink.  Obligingly, he brought his glass to hers, the ice within chattering excitedly as they took their respective sips.  This burned a great deal more than the beer, but that just meant he wasn’t drunk enough to ignore the flavor.  That would happen soon enough.

“Why you talking about me?” Victor muttered through his teeth, lips pulled back as he grimaced at the taste.

“I dunno if you noticed this, but Hasetsu is… kind of a ghost town,” Minako muttered as she placed her forearms on either side of the glass in front of her.  “My studio gets smaller every year.  Yu-topia struggles to stay in the black.  People just don’t want to live here anymore.”  She shrugged, shaking her head as she sipped at her drink.  “Yuri’s the only thing that makes this place notable.  If he does well, maybe it’ll help tourism around here.”

“’ssa lot of pressure,” Victor slurred, though it didn’t dull the point of what he was saying.

“We know how well Yuri handles pressure,” the dancer agreed, though Victor wasn’t quite familiar with the context of her phrase.  “But anyway.  I come here often.  I talk to Hana often.  Better or worse, she knows a lot about me, which means she knows a lot about Yuri, which means she knows a lot about you.”

“No fair.  I wanna know a lot about you.”  The Russian said, prompting a smirk from his drunk friend as she flicked back rebellious strands of brown hair that had fallen over her shoulders.

“Whaddya wanna know?” She asked, leaning heavily on the bar as she turned her body to face Victor.  The medalist paused, eyes traveling to the ceiling as he thought of where to he should begin.

“How long have you been dancing?” He asked, beginning at their commonalities.  With a laugh, she responded, “If we include teaching, too long.  40 years?”

“You started young!” Victor cried, momentarily bowled over by the number.  

“You have to if you want to be taken seriously, you know that.  You started around the same time, didn’t you, Victor?”

“I guess so.  Maybe a bit later.  I think I picked up skating around 12 or 13?”  She wasn’t wrong.  He’d heard that concert pianists were expected to play difficult concertos before they’d even entered their teens.  “What made you want to dance?”

“It’s a long story.”

As he quickly downed the rest of his double, Victor waved at Hana for one more.  “I’m about to get a new drink, so I have time.  You want another?”

“Please,” Minako said, following suit before she continued.  “Well, my family was poor.  That’s not very uncommon in this area.  I grew up on a rice farm until we had some bad seasons and needed to move in with my aunt in Fukuoka.  It was pretty uncomfortable.  We didn’t get along well and it’s hard to remember a day that didn’t end in a fight.”  Shortly after she was beckoned, Hana was there and filling each of their tumblers, the ice chittering as it shifted in the glass.  Pausing for a moment, Minako took a sip of her refill to wash out the taste of the memory before continuing.  

“One day, when I was about 9, I saw a ballet studio when I was walking home.  It was so quiet, just the music and the teacher giving instruction with their feet hitting the ground.  No shouting.  No arguments.”  Her eyes shined with an emotion Victor was too drunk to place.  “I thought they looked so angelic and peaceful.  It made me wish I could feel that way.  I sat outside the windows and watched until dinner.  I started watching them practice every day after school for a few months before the instructor came outside to speak with me.  I couldn’t afford to pay for lessons, and I don’t think my parents would have wanted to--” Bringing her eyes to the Russian’s, Minako broke out of her story to provide additional context. “--they were very insistent about my studies and going to college, even at that age.”  

Another sip before she continued.  “But the teacher let me work in the studio in exchange for participating in some of her classes.  I ended up surpassing most of her students, and she championed for me to get a scholarship at a dance academy when I was in my teens.  From there, everything kind of snowballed.”  Victor held a steady smile as he listened, ever the cheerful drunk.  

“Your parents must have been proud,” he remarked, wanting to imply that he was too.  If one could feel pride for the past accomplishments of someone nearly twice their age.  Minako shook her head, memories clouding her expression as a bitter smile lingered on her lips.

“Not at all.  They thought I was making a mistake.”  The glass in her hand hovered in front of her mouth.  “Parents always do.”

“That’s a shame.”

She shrugged, lashes drooping low over glassy eyes as she gazed into the bottom of her drink.  “That’s family.”

It wasn’t a sentiment that Victor was unfamiliar with, though he had never been a child who wanted for much.  Being successful in the arts required a lot of money--sometimes, lucky hopefuls who couldn’t afford the education they needed were able to find others that were willing to pay on their behalf.  But many weren’t.  The Russian had a hard time remembering that, though it seemed this excursion into coaching was hell-bent on humbling him in every way possible.

Blinking, he changed the subject, knowing that his emotions tended to swing too violently when he was inebriated.

“What’s your favorite production that you’ve worked on?” The question came with some difficulty, the booze fattening his tongue.

“Probably Cinderella.”  Minako cocked her head as she recalled more details.  “I think I did it at the Mariinsky Theater in St. Petersburg.”

At the mention of his home, Victor perked up.  “Really?!”

“Mmmmm… I think… 1994?”

“No!”  The excitement in Victor’s voice could not be contained.  “I saw that!  I was there.  I was there!”  The Russian’s head nearly turned a full circle as he looked for someone to share his disbelief with.  Eventually, he settled on Minako, his questions picking up where they left off.  “Who were you?”

She was smirking, the expression melted and crooked with drink.  “I was Cinderella.”

“ _Minako!_ ”  His hands met the counter with a loud slap, startling the few other people in the otherwise quiet room.  Had Victor been more sober, he might have been embarrassed, but as things currently were he was too bewildered to feel shame.  “I saw you there!  I can’t believe it.”

“Seriously?”

“Seriously!  I thought you were magnificent.”  His excitement pushed his drunken speech impediment to the side.  As he paused, Victor’s eyes glistened with memories of the performance.  “The scene where you danced alone with the scarf after your sisters left for the ball was so... breathtaking to me when I was a kid.”  

He remembered the long days his parents used to work, most of his time spent alone the moment they felt comfortable enough leaving him unsupervised.  Though his childhood home was small, it was lonely, and so to drown out his discomfort with the solitude he would grab a boombox tucked in a corner of his parents’ closet to play some of the old tapes they’d given him.  While he couldn’t speak much about his family, George Michael, Whitney Houston, Pet Shop Boys and Madonna were his closest friends.  

“I used to dance alone all the time…. but after I saw that, I’d always have a sheet or somethin’.  It made me feel…  It made me feel….”  The alcohol settled back into his head, his vocabulary shrinking by the second.  “...like you.”

“That’s sweet.  You’re sweet.”  Minako rested a hand atop his, their eyes meeting for a moment as a comfortable silence settled into the smile that they were sharing.  “But you make me feel so old.”  With that, she took a hearty gulp from her liquor; Victor couldn’t help but laugh, his own body catching up with hers, slowly but surely.  He wondered briefly if he would ever stop feeling the steady creep of mortality.

Minako was a surprise.  She was fun, tastefully foul, playful, and employed a fair amount of biting sarcasm that made her wit impossible to ignore.  Those traits brought out her youth, tricking anyone that met her into believing that she was a much younger woman.  It was refreshing, to be around an adult that wasn’t his coach, sponsor or competitor.  Victor quite liked her, and in his stupor, wanted to let her know.

“You have a young soul, Minako,” the words left his mouth with a sweet smile, because he meant them as a compliment.  But he realized too late that they also implied she was old.

“You’re too kind.”  Shooting him a dubious glance out of the corner of her eye, she finished what was left in her tumbler before motioning for another.  Victor quickly followed suit before attempting to defend himself.

“Noooo!  I just meant--I mean--Minako.  You can’t get me drunk and expect me to talk good.”  In defeat, the Russian rested his forehead on the bar, silently lamenting his mistake.

“It’s okay, Victor.  You know why?”

“Why?”  He glanced up quickly, unaware of the red ring that had already appeared on his alabaster forehead.

“Because we’re friends.”

“Weeeee’re frieeeends!” Victor sang in response, laughing as he all but laid himself on the counter.  Hana had made her way to Minako, the two starting a conversation that the Russian took too long to realize was in Japanese.  Pulling his phone out of his pocket, he opened Touchbook again, the app automatically revealing his exchange with Yuri.  Seeing the small green dot beside his name, Victor’s heart fluttered momentarily, the feeling exaggerated by his inebriation.  

 _Minako and I are friends._ He typed into the message box with a surprising amount of accuracy.  Much to his delight, Yuri responded quickly.

_Oh, are you two out together?_

_Ya_

_Glad you’re having fun._

A moment passed as Victor gazed at the screen to try and think of something to say.  He knew he had made a promise earlier in the night to try and be more professional with Yuri until his student felt comfortable with moving their relationship forward.   _If_ he’d ever be comfortable.  And to be fair, he’d managed to keep that promise for about… two hours.  

 _How are you feeling about the event?_ Victor asked, enough guilt slithering into him to motivate a more coaching-related conversation.  There was a longer pause this time, the three dots signaling a response popping up much later than they had previously.

_I’m nervous._

Frowning, Victor quickly attempted to assuage his student’s fears, but his fingers chose this moment to betray his drunkenness.   _Domt be.  THnk about them pork cutlet bowls we re gonna eat!_

_...You guys are drinking, aren’t you?_

_Ya.  So iM’ definitely gun aneed some katsudom after this_

_Haha._

Frowning, Victor inhaled and focused intently on his keyboard, knowing that his typos only deterred from what he was trying to say.   _Listen, you don’t have anything to worry about tomorrow.  You’ll be fine._

After a minute of staring at the screen, no response hinted at being on its way.  With a sigh, Victor backed out, opting instead to harass the Yuri he was more familiar with.  Minako was still talking with Hana and the Russian was feeling particularly needy.

 _Yuriooooooo_  The message was returned nearly instantaneously.  The junior must have been playing that damn phone game.  Victor hadn’t opened his since he had arrived.

_Wat_

_Yurio youre liek that guy in that one shoew_

_What?_

_That… waht show did you watch.  Yugeo?_

_...YuGiOh?_

_YAH_

_What are you talking about?_

_If i scream out YURIGIOH will yu grow and be better at acard game or ice skating_

_WHAT THE FUCK?_

There.  Victor had talked to both Yuri’s tonight, so there could be no claim of favoritism before the competition.  Pride plastered a self-satisfied grin on his face, the feeling motivated by his ability to find a loophole in the one rule he’d set for himself.

As he clicked off his screen, Minako’s hand wrapped around his wrist before giving it a tug.

“C’mon, boy.  This place is closing up.  I know a place.”

Confused, Victor quickly stumbled to his feet as he followed her, Minako’s beige jacket billowing out dramatically as they stepped outside.  “D-Don’t you have students tomorrow?”

She let out a hearty laugh before replying, “That’s a good one.”

 

*   *   *

 

The day of the Onsen on Ice event arrived slowly, delayed by the world’s worst hangover (certain to be forgotten all too soon).  A steaming mug of coffee was firmly hooked over Victor’s fingers and held just below his nose, the steam tickling the inside of his nostrils as he gazed out the window.  It was light out, the sun casting warm rays across the scenery outside, and yet he was the only skater in the house that was conscious.  Since arriving, Victor had been waking at hours some might call normal--before arriving in Japan, he’d had an alarm set every day for 11am to ensure that he was able to get _some_ use out of the day.  But the dramatic time change seemed to have shifted some habits, as well.

Taking a sip of his coffee, he grimaced, the bitterness of the drink biting into his tongue.  Victor wasn’t a huge fan, but enjoyed feeling alive in a way that only caffeine could make him.  So his relationship with it continued on, the man feeling like a hostage to its electrifying goodness.

Yesterday had been hellish, there was no doubt about that.  But they had managed to end the day with a bit of fun, the two students rifling through mountains of baggage containing all of Victor’s old costumes.  What a skater wore set the tone for their piece before anyone absorbed a single part of it, and so having the perfect outfit was integral to a successful performance.  It was why Victor had gone all-out on every one he’d commissioned, the pile of exposed rhinestones and sequins nearly blinding even in the indoor light.

Yurio’s approach to finding something for himself mostly involved scowling and tossing the more flamboyantly colored items to the side.  The Japanese Yuri, however, had changed nearly the moment he realized that he would be picking from _the_ Victor Nikiforov’s wardrobe.  Upon seeing the delivery, his eyes lit up like stars, face cracking into the widest smile Victor was certain he had ever seen on the other man’s countenance.  From there, he was lost to the fabrics, taking the time to carefully examine and identify each costume--when the Russian had worn it, what music he’d skated to, details even Victor had forgotten about his own performances.  While Victor had assumed that Yuri was a fan of his work, the depth of his love was something that caught the medalist off-guard.  

When Yuri finally selected a form-fitting, androgynous black bodysuit sprinkled with clusters of shimmering Swarovski crystals, he looked like a totally different person than the man Victor had gotten to know over the last two weeks.  His expression was bright, eyes wide and cheeks flushed from his excitement.  There was no shame in his decision, no embarrassment from the adoration he had so clearly displayed over Victor’s career.  Pure joy was all that could be found on his face, untarnished by his own nervousness.  Victor felt his heart break in half at the sight, the warm contents pouring out of the cracks and spreading across the entirety of his chest.  This expression was close to what the Russian remembered the night he had met his student, but somehow better in every way.  This was not motivated by booze, dim lights, music, or dancing.  This was causedby one thing: love.  For a brief moment, Victor found himself hoping that the feelings Yuri had about Victor’s work could one day be applied to him, as nothing more than a person.

But for now, that was just an idle fantasy.

As the heaviness lifted from his eyes, Victor couldn’t help but feel eager for the day to end; while he hadn’t remembered committing to the obligation of choreographing a routine for Yurio, he was still proud of himself for fulfilling the task.  Though the junior had made great strides in the week he’d been rehearsing, Victor was quite confident that the Asian would be able to best him.  Yurio was still too hostile--he was easily one of the best skaters Victor had seen, but the kitten was desperate to prove himself to anyone that would watch.  That zealous attitude bled into his skating, making his movements stiff and erratic.  There was no art in the way he skated, no inspiration--only anger and drive.  Despite his recent breakthroughs, Yurio had much left to learn, and the senior hoped that tonight’s performance might humble him enough to stop thinking of the division he was entering as a joke.   

The rough shuffle of slippers on wood brought Victor out of his head, eyes traveling to the door to find a half-awake Yuri Katsuki making his way to the fridge.  His hair was in every direction, glasses loosely resting on the edge of his nose.  The way his body moved implied he was sore, most likely from the late night of practice.  After selecting his wardrobe for his routine the evening before, Yuri had bolted out of the inn without a word, though Victor could safely assume it was to continue rehearsing.  Why he had been so excited to do so was anyone’s guess.

The Russian glanced at the clock hung near the door--9am.  

“Morning, sunshine,” Victor said with a hint of irony, smirking behind his mug.  The other man flicked his gaze to acknowledge his coach, grunting as his hands went to rub puffy eyes.  There was no other response.  “I was just about to make myself some breakfast. Care for some?”

With a generous wrinkling of his nose, Yuri gave the counter a dubious look, too braindead to hold eye contact with a living thing at the moment.  The Russian’s student, as he was thoroughly learning, was not a morning person.

“What are you making?” the Asian murmured as he folded his arms and leaned on the counter close to Victor.  His hands rested heavily on the surface, elbows locked and shoulders shrugged to his ears to help Yuri keep himself upright.

“...Toast?” Victor replied, feeling a hint of self-consciousness at the simplicity of the offering.  Another nose wrinkle, though this time Yuri brought his gaze to meet his coach’s.

“I’ll make some eggs.  I want eggs.  How do you want your yolk?”

Blinking in surprise, Victor quickly responded without thinking, taken off-guard by Yuri’s bluntness.  No blushes to be seen, no stuttering in his words.  A lack of sleep was not something Yuri responded to well, it seemed.  Good to know.

“I prefer hard boiled, but whatever’s easiest is fine.  That would be… scrambled, right?”

The barest hint of a smile graced the corners of Yuri’s lips as he quietly chuckled.

“Sure.”  He stepped away from the counter, approaching a low cabinet stuffed with pans.  As he rose with a smaller one in his hand, he beckoned Victor closer to the stove.  “Put the bread in the toaster.  Want to help me cook mine?”

Now it was Victor’s turn to throw Yuri a doubtful look.  Was this his way of helping Victor learn how to cook?  His response was cautious, quiet, but not insecure.

“Okay.  But only if you’re sure I won’t mess it up.”

Another half-assed gesticulation implied that the Russian was welcome regardless of his pitiful abilities.  Once his bread-related duties were taken care of, Victor approached his student cautiously, sidling up beside him on his toes as he gazed down into the pan.  After turning on the flame beneath it, Yuri passed a spatula off to to the silver blond as he stepped to the side, cracking an egg on the rim of the pan when it was good and hot.  As he poured it onto the heat, it started to bubble and hiss, the broken yolk staring up at him with a deformed expression.  A dash of salt and pepper were sprinkled over its surface by the ‘real’ chef; with his utensil clumsily in hand, Victor watched as the egg began to solidify.

“Mix the yolk in with the egg white before it gets too hard.”  Yuri had moved to the fridge, pulling the orange juice to pour himself a glass.  Dutifully, Victor obeyed, watching as the gold and white faded to a paler yellow.  It was done a few moments later, the misshapen mound a picturesque image of the intended product.  With a swell of pride, Victor plated it just as the toaster popped.  Yuri smiled, a frail thing that tugged against his apparent exhaustion.

“Now for mine,” he said, cracking another egg on the counter, taking more care to leave the yolk intact.  “I like over medium.  Leave it there for a minute, then flip it when the white is mostly cooked.”  The Asian made his way to the toaster, flopping the hot bread onto the plate with Victor’s first attempt at cooking in many years.  The familiar scrape of a knife let the Russian know that his toast was in the process of being buttered, but his eyes refused to leave his charge that was currently being fried.  He had been entrusted with the sacred duty of cooking Yuri’s eggs, and by god, he was going to do this right.

When it seemed as though the time was right, Victor attempted to slip the spatula under the egg, but it wobbled and fled from the force of his push.  A few more attempts ended with similar results.  

“Try rolling it,” Yuri suggested from behind his right shoulder; the Russian felt himself tense as the finalist’s fingers slipped around his wrist, hand deftly moving Victor’s to hook under one of the rounded corners of white.  His hands were warm, wrinkles from the sheets still imprinted vaguely onto his skin.  A moment later, the grasp was gone, and Victor was left alone to deal with his rebellious victim.  With much less grace, he pushed the egg onto its face, but his lack of coordination sent the yolk running in all directions across the bottom of the pan.  Disappointed, Victor wrinkled his brows.

“Oh, no.”

Yuri leaned over to examine the damage, chin ghosting against the curve of Victor’s shoulder.  The hint of contact sent a chill across the back of his neck, hairs pointing in greeting.  Whatever invisible boundaries his student had drawn between them were relaxed in the kitchen; Victor noticed that Yuri tended to feel comfortable in this space, more apparent today in the way he spoke and interacted with the Russian.  There was a cool confidence in how he worked with food, a practiced ease present when he cooked.  Here, their roles were switched, with the coach feeling lost and overwhelmed in a sea of teflon and steel.  Victor knew full well that a mistake here could lead to any number of nasty things, but his student seemed completely unbothered by the prospect of food poisoning, armed with the knowledge that his past mistakes had afforded.  Here, he knew what color his meat should be, how long to cook rice, the appropriate combination of ingredients to make a dish.  But despite the endless hours of practice with his skating, Yuri was still occasionally running into fairly rudimentary problems.  Was his confidence really all that caused those issues?

“That’s fine, I don’t mind,” the Asian murmured as the toaster popped again.  As he retrieved his own bread, Yuri continued.  “Give it a few more seconds and then put we’ll put it on my toast.”

“Whatever you say, senpai,” Victor replied cheekily, though Yuri’s raised eyebrow gave him pause.  “That’s right, right?  Senpai?”

“I-I’m not sure what you mean,” came the nervous response.

“He means ‘sensei’,” Yurio grumped from the doorway, looking less ragged than his Japanese counterpart.  “I’ve told you like a million times that ‘sensei’ means teacher.  I swear, you’re worse than Yakov.”

Granted, each time it had been explained was in passing, whenever the senior caught the junior watching anime on his phone at practice.  In the midst of names that were hard to recognize and stories that were even harder to follow out of context, it was difficult to keep his Japanese terminology straight (though they were mini-lessons that he wished he had paid more attention to now).  Victor ignored the insult with a graceful smile, holding his plate up proudly for the other to see.  

“Look!  I made eggs!”

The junior seemed unimpressed by the accomplishment, face twisting into its first scowl of the day as he examined the coach’s food with a critical eye.

“I thought you didn’t cook,” he said through downturned lips, the weight of his expression pulling down on his vowels.

“I’m a changed man, Yurio.  Just like you.”

With a sigh that made him sound twenty years older than he actually was, Yurio snapped back with little force, “That’s not my name.”  He removed a small bowl of leftover rice from the fridge, quickly tossing it in the microwave to reheat it before cracking a raw egg over the starch.  Once that errand was completed, he left as grumpily as he came, leaving Yuri and Victor to their breakfast.

The Russian struggled with his chopsticks, trying unsuccessfully to eat his own egg before giving up and scooping it onto his toast to match Yuri, whose eyes were half-lidded while his jaw worked in slow motion to chew his food.  As the sun shifted, a sunbeam cut across the room, dust particles dancing in the light.

“How’s the egg?” Victor asked tentatively, not particularly interested in hearing an honest answer if it wasn’t positive.

“Hmm?” Yuri grunted, bringing his eyes to meet Victor’s as he processed what was said.  As he glanced down at the bread, the question seemed to click.  “Oh.  Yeah, it’s fine.”

‘Fine’ wasn’t a glowing endorsement, but the medalist would accept it as praise regardless, if only to nurse his ego.

“If only you were half as confident on the ice as you are in the kitchen,” Victor joked, the residual insecurity from his attempt at breakfast lingering in the back of his mind. Yuri seemed caught off-guard by the comment, blinking slowly as he turned his face to look at his coach.

“What do you mean?”

Victor shrugged, not thinking it needed much explanation.  “You just seem so self-assured whenever you cook.”  A light chuckle left the Asian, accompanied with a lighter blush.

“That’s because I’ve been doing it for a long time,” he murmured, taking another bite of his food.

“Correct me if I’m wrong, but you’ve been skating for longer, haven’t you?”

When Yuri didn’t answer, Victor realized that what he was saying was being internalized in a way he didn’t have much control over, perhaps running through mental filters that diluted what the Russian was saying with the skater’s own insecurities.  In an attempt to take any sting away from what was said, Victor joked again.

“Maybe it’s for the best, though.  If you felt better about your skating then I would probably be out of a job.  And you’d have no motivation to get better.”

“Am I getting better, though?” Yuri’s response was quick, punchy, eyes widened just a fraction too much.  Now Yuri was the one asking a question he wasn’t sure he wanted to hear answered truthfully.  But there was no need for the Russian to lie.

“Of course.”

“Better enough to win tonight?”

“Tonight doesn’t matter,” Victor waved a hand to dissipate the thought.  There was no way he could tell Yuri he had never really taken the contest seriously in the first place--Yurio had only been entitled to a routine and if he wanted an unbiased contest, he shouldn’t have asked the man who had a crush on one of the contestants to judge.

“But what if--”

“Don’t worry about ‘what ifs’ right now,” the Russian popped the last bit of his breakfast in his mouth, dusting his hands off on the plate below them.  “Worrying only gets in the way of winning.  So, just know that you’ll do fine and you will.”

There was little doubt in Victor’s voice as he recited the looping logic, because it made every bit of sense to him.  While he wasn’t immune to nerves, he usual approach was to ignore them until performances--acknowledging those feelings tended to lead to actualizing what he was concerned about in the first place.  His words had been a mantra to himself for a long time, and he thought of them as helpful.  But Yuri’s small, thin-lipped nod implied that they weren’t as much so for him.

Victor got to his feet, glancing again at the clock as he brushed the last of the crumbs from his clothes.  Placing a hand on Yuri’s shoulder, he gave it a light squeeze before heading to the door.

“You’ll be wonderful.  Don’t forget, we’ve got interviews beforehand.”

Yuri blinked, as though coming out of a trance.  His palms traveled along his thighs, arms pressed tightly into his sides.

“Ah.  Right.”

Something felt off in his responses, his energy, his body language, but Victor wasn’t quite sure what he could do about it.  He knew that Yuri saw this contest as having much higher stakes than it actually did, but wasn’t quite sure what to say to dispel his concerns more than what he already had.  There was also the possibility that trying to comfort him could do more harm than good.  

Pausing in the doorframe, the Russian looked over his shoulder as he added, “There are some last-minute arrangements I need to take care of before tonight, so I’ll be at the rink most of the day.  If you need me, just head there or give me a call, okay?”

“Sure,” came the stilted reply.  Victor frowned, feeling momentarily helpless as he glanced away to hide the expression.  After a moment to collect himself, he turned back to his student, traditional grin plastered on his face.

“Well, I’m off!  See you in a bit.”

The strange, uncomfortable residue from their conversation lingered on Victor’s skin throughout the day, though he was able to push aside the conscious acknowledgement of it in the tasks he had to complete, from decoration to cleaning to harassing the Nishigoris into letting him drive the zamboni.  Those were the 30 most glorious minutes of his life, his face beaming with delight as he whipped across the rink at a neck-breaking 10KPH.

Hours passed, TV interviews passed, ticket-taking passed, polite ushering of masses of guests to their seats passed.  But time finally came to a stop as the lights lowered, the ice glowing a sickly grey as one of the twins made a fervid announcement over the speakers to rev up the crowd.  Yurio approached Victor at the barrier as he waited to be announced, his white mesh costume a beacon in the darkness.

It occurred to Victor that this would be the first “competition” that he would not be participating in.  His eyes traveled across the stands that waited behind them, full of eager audience members that begged to see the long-hyped face-off between the Yuri’s; he acknowledged the emotions that came with that realization weren’t negative, just… different.  Something he would have to come to terms with on his own.

Regardless, tonight wasn’t about him.  He shoved the thoughts aside, giving Yurio a hearty pat on the back as Plisetsky’s name echoed above them.  As the junior turned, his body shimmered in the low light, sequins winking with every movement.

“Showtime.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading!! I'll be out of the country for the next 10 days, so I'm not sure how much writing I can get done in that time. But I'll do my best to get something out in the next two weeks or so.
> 
> Hope you enjoyed!


	11. Miscommunication.

It was the year 2000.

Victor felt wrong.  The fabric of his costume seemed to cling to him more tightly than he remembered, squeezing around his ribs as he struggled to take sips of air through his nose; his jaw was clenched as his teeth ground against each other, the taut muscles drawing moving shadows along his pale, youthful face.  Anxiety burned in the back of his throat, a sensation that had been there for the better part of the day.  There wasn’t anything that made this particular event more nerve-wracking than any of the others he had previously participated in, but for whatever reason he couldn’t fight the looming uneasiness.  A long, silver ponytail draped itself over his shoulder, and he ran his fingers through it for comfort, eager to busy himself in an attempt to distract from the pit of dread that had replaced his stomach.

It was the first competition of the Grand Prix Final circuit, and only his second season.  While his results from the year prior were impressive, he was driven to outdo what he had done, eager to establish himself as the threat to his category that he knew he was.  His new routines were bold, the free skate planned for today elegant and dramatic.  But there was always a risk that people wouldn’t like it, and if he performed poorly his partnership deals with the sponsors he’d worked so hard to get could be dropped at a moment’s notice.  As they were really the only reason his parents allowed him to continue skating as seriously as he was, the thought of losing them added to the already heavy amount of pressure on his 15-year-old shoulders.

As he waited for the final few on the ice to finish their warmups, he scanned the crowd, though he didn’t know why; there was no one he knew there, his parents opting to stay back in Russia while Victor flew to the US.  It was hard for them to get time off of work to see him perform, let alone enough for a major international trip; it was October in Colorado Springs, but not even the promise of better weather could lure them out of St. Petersburg for the Skate America event.  With luck, they’d be able to see him in Moscow, but…

Eyes drifting downward, Victor felt loneliness wrap itself around his shoulders, so familiar to him that there was no need to acknowledge it.  A woman announced in English that it was time to clear the ice; the Junior hardly heard her.

A rough pat on his back brought him back to the real world, Yakov’s gruff face there to greet him behind the gesture.  Giving him a weak smile, Victor turned his attention back to the rink, attempting to get his head on straight before completing his debut performance of the season.

“You okay, Vitya?” his coach asked, and Victor knew he had been found out.  Despite the question, he still tried to keep a brave face.

“Yes,” came the clipped reply.  “Just a little nervous, I think.”

“There’s no need for that,” Yakov frowned, his wrinkles darkening.  “Know that you will do well, and you will.  Worrying will only make you trip over your feet.”

With a nod, Victor rested his hands on the barrier, exposed fingers peeking out over the top of his fingerless, gloved sleeves.  Black and skin-tight, the only color present in his costume was an alert scarlet hidden on the underside of a half-skirt sewn to his right hip.  His hips glittered, looped with white crystals that matched another generous cluster that trickled down his right shoulder.

So many things felt wrong about this moment that it was impossible to place a reason for his mood; wearing clothing and makeup that made him look years older than he was while surrounded almost entirely by strangers in a foreign country was enough to throw anyone for a loop.  The fact that his future was on the line didn’t help things.  Though he trusted Yakov, their relationship was still new, and the older man’s grumpy corrections were difficult to read as tough love at times.

“Yakov?” Victor’s voice escaped him, so small he hardly recognized it.  The coach turned to face him, eyebrow quirked.  “Is it… is it okay if… Can I hug you?”

The grump’s face softened, though he could never rid himself entirely of his glower.  In a moment, Victor was wrapped up in his arms.

“For luck,” Yakov said, voice humming against Victor’s chest where they met.  As they pulled away, the older man left his hands on his student’s shoulders.  “Not that you’ll need it.”

A moment later, Victor’s name boomed overhead, and his heart seized with panic.  With another comforting squeeze, Yakov broke his grip, stepping to the side to allow the Junior to pass.

“Do well, Vitya.”

 

*   *   *

 

“Please promise me you’ll watch!”

Victor blinked, Yuri’s bright voice in his ear bringing him back to the present moment as the memory faded from his mind.  His own student’s arms were wrapped around his neck, thrown there after Victor had approached Yuri to try and address the growing terror glistening in his eyes.  This was the first time since their meeting that the younger man had instigated any sort of physical contact, and it sent the Russian reeling.  They exchanged words quickly, ones that Victor could only partially remember, and soon Yuri was on the ice waiting for his music to play.  As the familiar intro began, the Asian seemed to slip into his own skin, his arms moving much more luxuriously than they had the previous night.  While not entirely free of imperfections, the extra practice had unlocked a confidence within Yuri that Victor hadn’t seen before, and he felt a surge of excitement as he witnessed the progress; he couldn’t help the satisfied whistle that left him as the younger man brought smouldering eyes to meet his.  Here, in the dark, in front of hundreds of people Yuri was performing for Victor, and a grin pulled at the corners of his lips as he drank in the spectacle.  Yuri’s program was not free of faults, with the brunette touching down on his way out of the quadruple salchow, but his interpretation left Victor highly impressed.

With the presentations finished, the night passed in a flash--Victor vaguely recalled wrapping Yuri in a tight hug while declaring him ‘the tastiest pork cutlet bowl he’d ever seen’, followed by Yurio’s sulky exit from the rink and the moments of “deliberation” that passed as a winner was chosen.  But as he stepped onto the podium beside Yuri, the world snapped into focus.  After being announced the winner, the younger man clutched a microphone for dear life as he attempted to stutter out a statement for the crowd.  Emboldened by their earlier hug, the Russian wrapped an arm around his student in silent support, and he could feel Yuri physically change at the contact; his shoulders squared, and after taking a quick breath, stated with believable confidence that he would win the Grand Prix Final…  _ with  _ Victor.

The champion beamed, taking quite a liking to the phrase.  But even more than that, he loved feeling physically close to Yuri; after weeks of cautious tiptoeing around unspoken boundaries, he finally felt more at ease to be himself around his student.

As the night drew to a close, the two made their way home, Victor’s eager declarations for celebratory drinks quickly shot down by his more antisocial student.  A pout made its way to his face for a brief moment before he realized he could just grab a beer at the inn, and grab a beer he did, plopping down in a quiet corner of the onsen to unwind after the hectic day.  Yuri had long since disappeared into his room, a threshold that Victor was strictly not allowed to cross.  Perhaps his emphatic insistence to share a bed his first night in Japan wasn’t Victor’s greatest idea, but in his defense, he had no ulterior motives--he was literally that tired and had always been partial to slumber parties.  

Even the memory of being turned away that first night couldn’t bring Victor down from the high he was currently riding, and though Yuri was out of bounds from any physical harassment, there was nothing stopping Victor from messaging him again.  Before he finished the thought, a note to Yuri had already been typed out, the words bright next to Victor’s own smiling face on the Touchbook app.

_ Congratulations.  I’m so proud of you. _

It was read without response.

Celebratory katsudon was had for dinner the next night, Yuri’s eyes glowing as he took his first shameless taste of fatty goodness in weeks.  Memories of steamed broccoli and bean sprouts were far away as they munched happily on their extra-large bowls, his mother delighted by how quickly they finished their meal.  

Days passed in training as the two polished the newly-debuted Eros program, refining its jump composition to prepare Yuri for the upcoming season.  Victor relished in their work, happy now to physically correct errors and reward a job well done with hearty pats and hugs.  Landing a quad salchow after a particularly arduous session earned Yuri an enthusiastic embrace, one that left him with glowing cheeks and a wide, breathless grin.  Yuri was sweaty, his bangs collected in large pieces on his forehead as his shirt clung heavily to his frame, but Victor didn’t care--he’d hug a thousand sweaty Yuris if it meant getting to see the look of elation on his face when Victor Nikiforov complimented him on a job well done.

But their newfound propinquity could only last for so long, he supposed.

When Victor tasked Yuri with finding his own music for the Free Skate, the distance reappeared between them; the Asian began turning down his invitations to go out without even a hint of uncertainty, avoiding eye contact when he could and keeping himself locked up in his room once returning from practice.  Fighting to keep his frustration at bay, Victor kept a smile firmly attached to his face when he could, remaining patient as his student ducked him at every turn.  A familiar sense of loneliness returned with each rejection, disappointment perching heavily on his shoulders when evenings left him alone.  While he was well beyond expecting any sort of romantic connection between the two of them at this point, Victor had at least entered into this relationship with the assumption that they could be friends, and after the Onsen on Ice event it seemed as though Yuri felt the same.  It seemed as though that was just the latest in a long line of wrong ideas the Russian had prior to arriving, one that was definitely the most heartbreaking.  Occasionally, he would send a frustrated text to Chris, who would respond with “helpful” (but mostly borderline inappropriate) suggestions.  

After a week of avoidance, Victor pushed aside his hopes of getting to spend time with his student outside of their coaching times, and opted instead to invite Minako out.  His simple message of “Drinks?” was met with a response moments later, an address sitting expectantly in the reply.  

This bar was decidedly less cozy than the one they had visited before, its walls bare and painted a deep crimson.  Minimalistic chairs and tables painted a flat black were placed in rows across the length of the small room, but his seat was not in any of them--Minako waited for him at the black bar, a chorus of angels singing out from the ceiling lights that poured down to illuminate the beauty of the wall behind it.  A drink waited for him at an empty stool, a tiny pool of relief and the promise of good conversation.

“Haven’t seen you in a while,” she teased as she scrolled through news stories on her phone, setting it on the counter as Victor took his seat beside her.  “How’s Yuri doing?”

“Wish I knew,” he responded woefully, and Minako smirked, seemingly familiar with where this was going.

“Drink first.  Then talk.”

A few nips of vodka left a familiar warmth in his hips, and while he was nowhere near being inebriated, it took the edge off the day.  Resting his elbow on the counter, Victor perched the side of his head on his knuckles, watching Minako as she carefully sipped at a dark bourbon.  She looked different tonight, her long coat abandoned in favor of a short-sleeved black tee coupled with a pair of jeans that stopped mid-calf.  Her long brown hair was pulled back in a ponytail, brushing along her shoulders.  Despite the drink in her hand, she looked younger.

“So, what’s our troubled friend doing this time?”  The ballerina asked, bringing silver eyes over to meet blue.  Victor sighed, officially ready to speak.

“I’m not sure,” he admitted, confusion flooding him all over again.  “It seemed like things were going well after the event, but recently he’s been completely avoiding me.  I can’t even get him to look at me half the time, and he hardly says anything that isn’t monosyllabic anymore.”  Grabbing his own drink, Victor took another sip in an attempt to wash the bad taste out of his mouth at the admission; as it was vodka, it was only replaced with something that was arguably worse, but it was worth a try.  “I don’t know what I did, but he’s completely shut me out.  He’s even started showing up to our sessions late.”

“Hmm.”  Minako was thinking, chin pinched between her thumb and forefinger.  “Sounds like he’s anxious.  Did you ask him to do anything recently?”  Her intuition was sharper than any knife, and silver brows furrowed in thought before Victor responded.

“Well, I told him that he needed to choose the music for his free skate,” he admitted with a shrug.  “I guess it makes sense.  It doesn’t seem like he’s doing well with it.  He snapped at me the other day when I asked.”

With a sage nod, Minako replied, “Yup.  He tends to clam up when he thinks a decision is too difficult and tries to avoid it altogether.  I think he thinks it’s better than making the wrong one.”

“It’s just picking a song, though.”  The logic Minako presented escaped Victor; how was there a wrong decision when it came to self-expression?  

“Picking a song for a season he didn’t wasn’t sure he was going to be participating in, and with a coach that’s one of the most decorated skaters in the world,” she corrected.

Ah.  That would build some pressure.

“Fair point,” Victor conceded, turning away from Minako to rest his elbows on the bar.  As he nursed his drink, he couldn’t help but sigh, the complicated mess that was Yuri’s thought processes difficult for him to interpret.  Victor was a simple man who preferred a direct approach, even if it bordered on unkind.  Speaking from the heart was better than tiptoeing around feelings and causing miscommunications, and the medalist felt like nothing he did could clear up this one.  Maybe he didn’t know the right questions to ask, but where did one start with someone like Yuri Katsuki?  The dark-haired man seemed to be an anxious enigma.  Another sigh escaped him as he vocalised his thoughts, the words lubricated by the previous contents of his empty glass.  “I just don’t know where I stand with him.  I don’t know what I was expecting when I got here, but when we met he  _ seemed  _ like he was interested in me.  And now I kind of feel lost about where we stand.”

Choking on her drink, Minako straightened, giving her conversation partner a somewhat bewildered look.  “Wait, you mean that you’re… you mean… with Yuri?”  She looked around, leaning in with a conspiratorial whisper.  “You  _ like  _ him?”

If it weren’t for the booze Victor might have thought he was 15 again, and thank god he wasn’t.  This whole endeavor would have involved so much more pointless angst if he were, and there was already more than enough as far as he was concerned.  Still, the topic did involve a crush, which meant that he was not immune to the blush that painted his nose before he responded.

“Yes.”

With raised eyebrows, Minako blinked once, as though taking a moment to reboot after receiving the confirmation.  Victor didn’t understand why it was such a surprise, but simply added it to the list of things that eluded him.

“So you came out here because you have a crush on Yuri.  Yuri Katsuki.”

Heat spread across his cheeks as he was met with incredulity, something he thought he had gleefully escaped when he left Russia.

“Well, I came to coach him, but that encouraged me to come, yes.  I thought he felt the same way, honestly.”

“Huh.”  She was analyzing his words carefully, turning her body on her barstool to face him before folding her arms.  “What did he do?”

No need to dance around it, he supposed.  Pun not intended.

“He took off his shirt and asked me to be his coach,” Victor answered as though he were talking about the weather; though Minako’s bangs were pulled back and clipped to the top of her head, he was certain that her eyebrows were going to disappear into her hair.  “There was a lot of grinding.”

“...Okay,” she said, brows refusing to come down as she continued to process the image.  “That… does  _ not  _ leave much room for interpretation.”  Though he already knew that to be the case, he was relieved to hear someone else say it out loud.  Minako did not let the satisfaction last long, however, as she was hit with another realization.  “Wait.  My little Yuri came on to  _ you? _ ”

Victor nodded, unable to help the grin that came with it; Minako, having finally reached a place where she could accept the mountain of information that had been pelted at her, shook her head once again.

“Wow.  I didn’t know he had it in him.”

“Drinks may or may not have been involved,” the Russian added helpfully as he finished his own, waving for another.  It didn’t seem to aid in alleviating her astonishment, and seeing her so perplexed made Victor feel a little pleased with himself--it meant that he had seen something many most likely had not before.  There was something to be said about that, and he was eager to take comfort where he could.

Having come to terms with everything, Minako returned to her drink, downing the rest as the bartender approached them for a second round.  Victor went for more of the same, the clear vodka deceptively refreshing in appearance.  After a moment of consideration, Minako ordered a rum he wasn’t familiar with, the bottle that the bartender pulled down from the wall covered in tentacles, the threatening deep sea creature that rested over the dark brown liquid an ominous warning.  Once the beverages were distributed, the unlikely duo were once again left in blissful solitude to discuss the most universal of problems--boy trouble.

“Look,” Minako picked up where they left off, wincing through the taste of her drink.  “If you’re confused, just ask him straight out.”  Leaning an elbow on the bar, she pointed the index finger attached to it firmly at Victor’s face, eyes serious.  “Don’t give him the option of saying no to an invitation--make him sit down and talk to you.  It’s the only way to snap him out of these things.”  Another sip, another grimace, followed by a shrug.  “Sometimes he gets overwhelmed and saying no is easier than dealing with the problem.”

“That works?” the question came out much more dubious than he intended, but it was justified--Yuri tended to recoil anytime Victor tried to approach a subject head-on, but it had been awhile since his last attempt.

“Yes,” she affirmed, nodding her head for emphasis.  “Usually.”

The brief addendum was hardly comforting, but at the very least, the advice had given him a better idea of how to deal with the unbearable twists and turns of his student’s mood.  Two days passed as Victor contemplated the best way to broach the subject; on the third day, Yuri was late, and Victor was done being patient.  Keeping a watchful eye on the clock, the Russian counted the minutes that passed in solitude, each collection of 60 seconds a niggling reminder that for whatever reason, Yuri did not want to respect his time.  Victor was fine being rejected for any personal reason, no matter how much it might hurt, but he  _ had  _ been invited here for his professional guidance--something he knew was objectively valuable, given his experience and accolades--and for whatever reason, his student wasn’t taking the time to utilize it when he said he would.

Making sure to keep a smile as he did so, Victor bid a terse farewell to the rink staff 30 minutes after their scheduled meeting time before hopping on his bike to ride back to the onsen.  He was mad, as close as Victor ever got to it, and the Russian threw open Yuri’s door with little regard for his privacy--met with wild, guilt-ridden eyes, Victor kept his lips forced back in a grin, though there was little sincerity in the gesture.

“Let’s go to the beach.”

It was not a question.

Thankfully, Yuri reacted the way Minako had predicted he would, and the two found themselves seated on the sand, a pleasant breeze brushing against Victor’s bare forearms as he rested a hand on Makkachin’s back, his ever-present canine guardian seated between the two of them.  As time passed, the brunette opened up little by little, his knees tucked under his chin as he did so.  He admitted he was guarded, worried that people would see him as weak--something Victor quickly negated.  When conversation lulled, the comforting exhalation and inhalation of the ocean filled the silence, the waves reminding him of Yuri as they rolled up at his feet and quickly retreated. 

“What do you want me to be to you?” Victor asked as the water pulled back, returning a moment later.  Bluntness felt refreshing.  “A father figure?  A brother?  A friend?”

Though he kept his eyes firmly forward to avoid any chance of startling his student, he caught Yuri’s cautious glance in his direction before answering.

“...No.”

Victor failed to keep the pleased look off his face, the familiar kaleidoscope that came with these moments twisting and fluttering in his chest.  He was right, through all the confusion, heartbreak and crossed wires--there  _ was  _ something between them.  In that moment, he felt bold, but continued to push his gaze out at the sea before continuing.

“So your boyfriend, then.  I’ll do my best.”

It wasn’t quite possible to scientifically measure how high Yuri jumped at that declaration.  Seconds later came the loud denials, so routine that Victor couldn’t find the energy to be disappointed, but when the brunette got to his feet, the moment changed.  His fists were clenched, brows furrowed with an unidentifiable emotion that painted his cheeks pink.

“I want you to be  _ you _ ,” Yuri declared without an ounce of hesitation, eyes meeting his coach’s as Victor turned his head to look at the other in surprise.  It wasn’t what he was expecting from the younger man, and wasn’t as clear-cut as the scenario that Victor had presented.  This was Yuri telling him that there was no need to rush, or force something that didn’t need to be forced.  Really, it made sense, given that putting a label on things when they were still in their infancy only added expectations that didn’t need to be there yet.  It was… sweet.  Unbelievably sweet.  “I’ve always looked up to you.  I was ignoring you because I didn’t want you to notice my shortcomings.”  A look of determination crossed Yuri’s features.  “I’ll make it up to you with my skating.”

No apology followed, and frankly, Victor didn’t want one.  This was all he had ever needed--clarification.  Warmth flooded into his chest, a smile to match forming on his lips, and Victor wondered if there would ever come a day that he might truly understand the complicated ball of anxieties known as Yuri Katsuki.  Some small part of him never wanted to, because learning more was half the fun.

“Okay, then,” Victor agreed, dusting himself off as he stood to hold his hand out for a shake to seal the deal.  “I won’t go easy on you, in that case.”  He grinned when Yuri accepted, a sticky sweet feeling inching up to his heart from where their hands met.  “That’ll just be my way of showing my love.”

Yuri’s face changed, mouth slightly agape as they stood together on the sand, the breeze tousling his hair for a moment before Makkachin leapt on their joined hands, weighing down on their wrists before they broke their grip.  They laughed, moving to wander aimlessly along the shoreline now that they were on their feet.  As Makkachin chased the gulls that scavenged for leftover food from picnickers in the sand, Yuri took more time to point out landmarks from his childhood--things that had more personal meaning to him than the town.  He felt closer now than ever before; Victor noted that he owed Minako a drink.  Several, in fact.

“Hey, Victor?” Yuri said quietly, and Victor felt something bloom within him.  Had Yuri called him by name before?  “...What did you mean by ‘showing your love’?”

His heart froze--now Yuri was putting the ball in his court.  ‘Love’ was a strong word for what he felt… he thought.  He should think.  It had been very little time for him to jump to that sort of conclusion about his feelings, and it wasn’t a word he had put very much thought into when it slipped out of his mouth.  His mistake, Victor supposed.  But he smiled and turned to face the question head on.

“It means that I like eating pork cutlet bowls with you,” he said carefully, not wanting to scare his student with the potential depth of his feelings, but with the deliberate intention to clear up any idea that he wasn’t interested.  “I like your skating, and watching you get better has made me… very proud.”  Though Victor was not usually one to shy away from talking about his feelings, his heart quickened, a hint of nervousness making his voice a bit breathier than it should have been.  “But it also means that if you want me to be myself, then I need you to be you.  I need you to be confident in who that is.”

As Victor spoke, the asian listened intently, eyes shimmering with a thousand epiphanies behind his glasses.  His expression was open, cheeks brushed with a bit of pink.

“I know that might seem  scary, especially when we don't know each other very well, but…”  Victor paused, weighing his options before finishing the sentence how he wanted.  “I like you.”

The pink deepened to a rose red, but Yuri remained quiet.  Heartbeat pounding in his ears, Victor struggled to remember the last time he was this nervous.  “And I like working with you.  Just remember that."

A silent nod was all he got in response, but Yuri’s eyes were as bright as his cheeks.  Making their way back to the road, Victor couldn’t help but wonder what this conversation would mean for them in the future.  As their knuckles brushed against each other, he felt a heat grow in his ears while alternative scenarios of their accidental contact played out in his head.  

He wasn’t quite sure how he expected things to play out when he landed in Fukuoka all those weeks ago, but in this moment, he was grateful to be here.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AAAA. I'm sorry for the delay on this. Real life hit hard, and to be honest, I've been struggling a bit with this fic's pacing--I felt like things were getting a little too microscopic, and trying to wrap that around established scenes in the episodes made things difficult. Now that we're past episode 4 and have a bunch of months to play with, I think things will get a bit easier, but I'm still having some difficulty making decisions on certain things. Namely, whether or not to add mature content (though I don't think this fic will ever escalate to smut), and whether or not I should be as infinitesimal in some of the interactions. If you have an opinion, let me know!
> 
> As always, thanks for reading, and I'm always appreciative of any thoughts you leave in the comments!


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